#build your own altar

[smhalltheurlsaretaken]

not me typing a whole rant about some catholics being insufferably smug about their "better looking churches" while ignoring the history behind the barebone austerity of protestant churches and then deleting it all because my seething anger isn't christ-like either

*gnaws on wood* God help me love your children even when they are absolute prigs

[blackstarising]

the most unprepared demigods you ever did see

children of a miracle, don diablo and marnik / the weight, kathleen graber / unfold, porter robinson and totally enormous extinct dinosaurs / "church and state", succession (2023) / tiktok user blaineunderstudy / his stillness, sharon olds / dune: part two (2024) / andrei tarkovsky, journal 1970-1986 / electra, sophocles / the world was wide enough, lin-manuel miranda and leslie odom, jr. / little miss sunshine (2006) / soldier, poet, king, the oh hellos

[thehmn]

Here’s a job you probably never even knew existed but is perfect for episodic stories.

Years and years ago I worked for a substitute/temp company, meaning other companies could ask for, say, five workers for any kind of job for anywhere from a day to a month and my company would then pick out five of their employees with suitable skills and ask us if we wanted to take the job.

You can imagine I ended up getting all sorts of wacky experiences. This was the job where I was hired to clean a dirty old kitchen with 10 other people at a mansion but got lost one day and walked into a cultish room with an altar and thrones lined up along the wall.

And when I say any kind of job I mean it. People asked for all sorts of unskilled work but the company also got requests for specialized work that only certain workers could do. I spent a week in an empty building where I only saw the other worker who had been hired along with me attaching wheels to carts. At another job we were sent up through a hole in the ceiling at a mall where we cleaned out old boxes. A particularly beautiful job entailed “braiding” small transparent tubes down a wall at a temporary closed factory while the sun was shining through ceiling windows which made the tubes glitter like glass. No idea what that job was about. We did anything from cleaning to preparing food to clearing a building site to factory work to hauling fish to painting to looking after animals to-

And if you like dressing your characters up you’re going to love this; our company didn’t have their own uniform because we were always dressed in the uniforms of the companies we were hired out to, or the companies would dress us in work appropriate clothes like overalls or aprons. I was once handed a cute long dress to wear while I sold pancakes.

I realize some of it sounds dangerous but it was all perfectly safe. Sometimes companies just needed extra help with something for a few days. The only reason why I stopped was because the work wasn’t stable and you never knew how far you’d have to travel to the next job. It was fun though.

[fatecantstopme]

Spell Bound

Pairing: Dean Winchester x plus size!reader

Summary: It's sex pollen...I couldn't help myself.

Warnings: cursing, use of pet names. An excessive amount of heavy SMUT, unprotected sex (P in V), rough sex, oral (F receiving), multiple cream pies

"I freaking hate witches," Dean mumbled as he picked the lock on the apartment door.

You chuckled softly, very used to hearing him grumble every time you were hunting a witch.

He slowly walked into the apartment and you followed in after him.

"So what exactly are we looking for?" you asked quietly.

"Big scary magic book. Sam said it's probably on or near some kind of altar."

"Big scary magic book," you muttered under your breath. "Makes perfect sense."

You sighed as you walked into the living room and noticed several bookcases lined with large books. "You've gotta be kidding me."

Dean shot you a weary smile. "Guess it might take a little longer than I thought."

"You think?"

You took one side of the room and Dean took the other. Sam had described the look of the book to the both of you, but there was really no way to be 100% certain if you found it.

About 15 minutes into your perusal, you spotted a large leather-bound book tucked under what appeared to be an altar cloth. You slowly removed the cloth, wary of what you might uncover. The book was almost exactly as Sam had described, so you had a feeling it was the right one.

"I think I found it," you said aloud.

At almost the same exact moment, a crash sounded from behind you and Dean let out a string of curses.

You spun around to see the hunter brushing off some sort of florescent pink dust from his face. "What the hell did you do?"

"I was moving some of the books and this box fell out and some powder just kinda...sprayed my face."

"Seriously?"

He looked sheepish. "I didn't even see it."

You sighed. "Great. God only knows what the hell that was."

He looked at the box carefully, but there was nothing written on it to identify the powdery substance he had inhaled. He gave you another sheepish look and shrugged. "Maybe it's not harmful."

You shot him a stony look. "Dean...it's a witch. It's not gonna be fairy dust."

He sighed, knowing you were right. He started shifting his shoulders a bit as if he was uncomfortable.

"Let's get out of here. I'll call Sam on the way back to the motel and see if he has any idea what it could be."

Dean nodded and followed you out the door. By the time you got outside the building and to the car, he was twitching like an addict in need of a fix.

"Dean?" you asked tentatively.

"My skin feels like it's on fire and--and it's like--itchy. And there's a weird feeling inside that I can't describe, but it doesn't feel nice."

"Okay...how 'bout I drive?"

He looked up at you with concerned eyes, but he handed you the keys and got into the passenger seat. You knew he must really be feeling terrible if he was letting you drive Baby.

You started the car up and pulled out of the parking spot while simultaneously calling Sam on your cell. He answered on the third ring.

"Dean got some sort of witchy powder on his face and now he's...itchy?" you said quickly in lieu of a greeting.

Sam sighed. "What are his symptoms?"

You put the phone on speaker. "Dean, what are your symptoms?"

Dean couldn't look at you and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a growl. "I feel like crawling out of my own skin, everything aches, and I'm having a hard time breathing right. Oh and I can literally smell (Y/N)'s skin, which is totally not normal!"

"You can smell my skin?"

He grumbled under his breath. "I can smell your skin and your shampoo and your goddamn body wash, and I want--fuck. What the hell is wrong with me, Sam?"

"Uh, I honestly don't know. Let me call Bobby and see if he has any ideas."

You set the phone down on the seat beside you. "Maybe you're turning into some kind of animal?"

"What?"

"Well, I mean...you can smell me...which is weird and kind of--animalistic."

"I don't think that's it," he said harshly. "My body is aching in a way I can't even begin to describe to you, but I don't think I'm morphing into anything."

You eyed him carefully, worry etched into your face. He was your closest friend and trusted hunting partner, and you hated seeing him like this. Witches scared the shit out of you...you knew what they were capable of.

"Maybe drive a little faster," he hissed.

You pressed harder on the gas and the Impala shot down the road. When your phone rang, you answered it immediately.

"So I think I might know what it is, but I have something I need to ask Dean first," Sam said.

"Okay." You looked at Dean. "Can you hold the phone? Sam wants to ask you something."

Dean took the phone from your hand, hissing as his skin made contact with yours. "What?" he grumbled.

"This is gonna be awkward, but I need to know, okay? Do you feel--umm--aroused at all?"

Dean was silent for a moment as he let his brother's question sink in. Ohhh fuuuuck, he thought to himself. He glanced down at his jeans and noticed the bulge straining against them. With the intense pain he was experiencing, he hadn't really noticed. "Son of a bitch," he mumbled. "Yeah."

"Okay, well the good news is, I know what it is. It's called sex pollen."

"It's called what?"

"Sex pollen. The name doesn't really matter, but you have all the symptoms. They're only going to get worse until--well until you die."

"Die? Is there a cure?"

You looked over at Dean in terror, your foot pressing down even further on the pedal. Dean's hand was shaking slightly as he put the phone on speaker so you could hear.

"You have to--uhh--well--shit. You have to umm...fuck it out."

"I have to what?"

"Dude, I know, okay? But you don't have a choice. If you don't you'll die a rather painful death."

"Son of a bitch," Dean said again. "Can I, umm, take care of it myself?"

"According to what Bobby read, the only option is actual intercourse with another person."

"How long do I have?"

You were acutely aware of Dean's close proximity to you, and now you understood the nature of his pain. Your own breathing was more labored, but you desperately tried to maintain control of yourself. Don't make it weird, (Y/N), you thought to yourself.

"30 minutes from the time of contact until...until death," Sam answered.

"30 minutes?" you gasped. You started doing the math in your head as Dean continued talking to his brother. "We have maybe 10 more minutes until we get back to the motel and that leaves about 10 until..."

Dean looked over at you, his normally green eyes dark with need. "I'm so fucked," he muttered.

"That doesn't really leave us time to find someone for you to--you know," you said worriedly.

"Shit."

"Might wanna make it fast," Sam said.

"Obviously," Dean snapped. "How long will it take to...get out of my system?"

"That depends," Sam began. "If it's meaningless, one and done. If it's someone you care about...that's another story."

"Another story?"

"It could take a lot longer."

"Great," you mumbled.

"Sam, don't be there when we get there," Dean growled at his brother before hanging up the phone.

"Dean?" you questioned softly.

"Just drive, (Y/N)."

You continued driving, but your focus was most definitely not on the road. You could hear the heavy breathing and the soft pained sounds coming from the man beside you and it made it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything else. It certainly didn't help that you had wanted him for years and seeing him like this was making you feel things you absolutely shouldn't be feeling.

Dean flirted with you regularly, but he flirted with almost every person he came into contact with. It's just a part of his personality, so you never read into it. While Dean quite obviously adored you (and you him), you were not his type. You were a good fighter, sure, but where you really excelled was research. You were brilliant--almost as knowledgable as Bobby, though you still had plenty to learn. You were also significantly more--voluptuous than the women Dean gravitated to. Soft, chubby, more to love--whatever you wanna call it. As such, you'd never made any sort of move to announce your feelings for him. You didn't want to face his rejection.

"Sweetheart, if you don't speed up, I'm liable to die before we make it there," Dean hissed.

You shot him a look. "We're less than two minutes away, so don't die on me yet, Winchester."

He exhaled sharply and nodded. "I'm not gonna make it either way, (Y/N). Like you said, we don't have enough time to find a, uh--partner."

You took a deep breath. "I can't let you die."

He looked over at you and you felt his gaze boring right into your soul. "I can't do that to you."

"I really don't see how we have much of a choice here."

You pulled into the motel parking lot before he could respond.

"Let's go," you said quickly as you got out of the car and made your way to your room.

Dean was right behind you, so close you could feel his breath on the back of your neck. As soon as the door was unlocked, Dean was pushing you through it and locking it behind you.

"Shit," he muttered. "I don't wanna hurt you."

"It's okay, Dean," you said softly. "I'm not afraid."

His eyes widened and he grabbed your chin. "You should be...I'm going to lose control."

"It's alright...use me."

He let out a low growl and squeezed your chin tighter. "I--I won't be able to make this good for you."

You pressed yourself against his body, feeling the hard ridges against you. "It's not about me. You need this."

That was all it took for Dean to let go. His lips attacked yours with a hunger you were not expecting despite the intensity of the situation. He was not at all gentle as he tore your clothes from your body, ripping his own off with equal force.

He tossed you down on the bed with shocking ease. He had absolutely no difficulty manhandling you. You weren't sure if it was the sex pollen or just him.

His lips and hands were everywhere, touching every inch of your soft skin he could possibly reach. He needed to be inside of you so badly it was almost impossible to breathe. His skin burned with each touch and his instincts screamed at him to just break you.

He moves his way down your body and you're surprised as he stops just above your core. "Dean, what are you doing?" You knew he needed a release--and soon--or he wasn't gonna make it.

A voice in the back of his mind kept reminding him this was (Y/N), his (Y/N). Even in his current state, he wanted to avoid hurting you if he could. "Need to get you ready," he grunted.

The words were barely out of his mouth before he was devouring your pussy. The sounds he made were incredible, the feeling almost electrifying. He slid two fingers in and moved them in a scissoring motion to help loosen you up.

He was only down there for a 30 seconds before he came up and locked eyes with you. "I can't hold off anymore."

You nodded. "Just let go. I'll be okay."

He knew the moment he slid inside you, he'd be a goner. Whatever tiny amount of self control he'd managed to hang onto would disappear in an instant. But he could also feel the roaring agony inside him and he needed to feed it before it devoured him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against your ear a split second before he sheathed himself fully inside you.

You cried out--pain mixing with pleasure as his large member stretched you in ways you'd never before experienced.

Dean couldn't give you time to adjust--he was too far gone. His hips began to move and his sole focus was on his own pleasure--his own release.

His thrusts were powerful and fast, so much so that your body started to scoot farther up the bed. He grabbed your hips and held you in place, pace never faltering. The sensations were almost painful given his size, but you wouldn't have stopped him even if you could have.

"Fuck, baby--you feel so good," he grunted.

You were more than a little surprised when he spoke--you hadn't pegged him as a dirty talker. Then again, it could very well have been the pollen. The same could be said of the sounds coming from his mouth. You'd never heard such sinful noises and you loved them.

"So tight--squeezing me so good. Feels like heaven."

You squeezed his cock purposefully, making him groan each time you clenched down. He needed his release and you were gonna make sure he got it. Your own enjoyment was far from your mind--this was essentially a transaction--a lifesaving measure. You had to view it that way to protect your heart...at least that's what you told yourself.

"Baby," he moaned. "Imma fill you up--so close."

Despite the voice in your head telling you this wasn't real--that you shouldn't have any emotional attachments--you reached up and touched his face, caressing it lovingly. "Cum for me, Dean," you whispered.

His eyes locked on yours and he bit his lip--hearing you say his name in the heat of the moment was a bigger turn on than he'd ever imagined. It pushed him right over the edge and he spilled inside of you with a grunt.

You lay beneath him, panting despite the minimal exertion on your part. He'd had his orgasm, but he was still moving, much to your surprise. "You're not done--?"

He shook his head. "Need more."

He pulled out and quickly flipped you over with no warning. You instinctively lifted your hips to allow him access, which he took without hesitation. His cock was still throbbing and the need still burned in his veins. His mind remained singularly focused on his relief--his pleasure.

He slammed into your pussy and set a brutal pace, earning a cry of pain from your lips. This new angle allowed him better access, sending his cock deeper inside of you. His head brushed against your cervix with each thrust, a stinging pain accompanying the pleasure.

Dean's large palm came down on your ass with a hard smack, eliciting a gasp of surprise from your lips. Your pussy clamped down on his cock as he landed another slap to your round cheek.

"Fuck baby, you like that don't you?" Smack. "You like it when I slap this sexy ass?" Smack. "Fuck--squeezing me so tight, sweetheart." Smack.

He was right though, you loved it. You always had, but there was something extra enjoyable about having your ass smacked by Dean Fucking Winchester. Even if you couldn't verbally express your pleasure to him, your pussy made it well-known.

Dean's right hand gripped your hips tightly, pulling you flush against him as he continued pumping. His left hand trailed up your back until he grabbed a fist full of hair at the base of your neck and pulled. Your head snapped back and you cried out, but you didn't fight him.

"Do you know how badly I've wanted to pull this hair, pretty girl? Fuck--I think about it all the time." His pace was relentless and his hand remained entangled in your hair.

You'd never really noticed him looking at your hair in any particular way, so you assumed once again the pollen was making him say such dirty little things.

After several more thrusts, Dean let go of your hair and pushed down on your upper back, forcing you to press your upper body into the mattress. Dean gripped your hips with both of his hands and slammed into you with an intensity that was unmatched by any of his previous actions.

You had a feeling he was close to another orgasm, at least if his grunts and curses were anything to go by. You clenched down around him again, intent on pushing him past the brink.

It worked like a charm. Dean came with a cry of your name, thrusts continuing as he emptied inside of you once again.

You were exhausted and you hadn't had a single orgasm. Part of you really hoped Dean had gotten it all out of his system, but another part of you didn't want this to end. Even if it wasn't real--even if he didn't actually want to be having sex with you, you liked pretending, if only for a little while.

Dean pulled out of you slowly and rolled you over with a surprising gentleness. You assumed that meant he was satiated and the pollen was out of his system.

When you met his eyes, you were surprised by how brilliantly green they were. You'd almost gotten used to the dark forest color that had taken over as a result of the pollen. He was looking at you with an odd expression you couldn't quite place, but for some reason it made you want to scurry away and hide.

"Better?" you whispered.

He cocked his head to the side and a small smirk played on his lips. "Not even close," he murmured.

His lips met yours in a fiery kiss before you had time to respond. Unlike the previous kisses, this one was more passionate, more intense. It made your body tingle all over and a warmth spread through your veins.

Dean's brain fog had finally cleared enough that he could actually slow down and focus on what was happening--on what he was doing, or rather who. He hated that he'd cum twice without even thinking about you, let alone making you orgasm. Dean prided himself on being an excellent lover and he wasn't about to let you leave this bed unsatisfied.

His cock brushed against your pussy as he shifted to hold you closer. You both inhaled sharply, enjoying the sensation. Dean's lips began to travel down your neck, leaving soft, wet kisses in his wake. He nipped at your pulse point, earning an excited moan from you. He liked hearing that sound, so he sucked on that spot until you were panting heavily beneath him.

His hands traveled over your soft curves, touching and squeezing all the parts of your body you were self-conscious about. Dean didn't seem to give a damn that your stomach wasn't flat, that your hips weren't narrow and your thighs weren't skinny--in fact, he seemed to be reveling in the feeling of softness.

His lips were so gentle as he continued his downward movements. He kissed and licked and sucked on each of your breasts, spending several minutes focusing on each one. "You have such perfect breasts," he murmured.

You were too surprised, and perhaps too lost in pleasure, to formulate any kind of response to his words. Luckily, he didn't seem to need one, and he refocused his attention on you.

Once he was satisfied your breasts had received enough love, he continued moving down your stomach, stopping to place soft kisses to every mark and scar he saw.

When he reached your sweet pussy, he spread your legs as wide as he could and settled down between them. You were surprised at his actions, especially since you knew he was still hard--that he still needed another release.

Dean was now singularly focused on one thing--and that was you. Now that his damn brain was working properly, he wanted to make sure you enjoyed this--even if it was a one time thing because you didn't want him to die, he wasn't about to walk away from this without making you scream his name at least once.

He breathed in deeply, smelling your arousal mixed with his own spend, and he smirked. His eyes flicked up to yours and his mouth latched onto your clit, unleashing an overwhelming assault on your swollen mound.

You gasped as the sudden pleasure washed over you. You couldn't take your eyes off the man between your legs--nor did he take his eyes off you. Every time your hips bucked or you tried to move, his strong arms held you in place so he could continue to watch you.

You were writhing against the sheets in what felt like seconds--it was probably longer, but either way you felt embarrassed at how quickly you fell apart under his touch. Your orgasm tore through you like a hurricane, broken moans dripping from your lips.

To your shock, and perhaps concern, Dean didn't stop his assault on your pussy. Even as you tried to squirm away, he held you in place, desperate to give you another orgasm. You whimpered that it was too much, begged him to give you a break, but all of those words quickly morphed into pleas to keep going--don't stop.

"Dean," you gasped as your fingers slipped into his hair, grabbing hold of the short locks by the roots. Your nails scrapped lightly against his scalp and he let out a soft groan.

His tongue seemed to dance across your clit, creating beautiful designs and languages only he seemed to know. He paid attention to what motions made you quiver, which ones made you moan, and which ones had you tugging on his hair with an iron grip.

"Dean, please--I--so close," you moaned.

He smiled, enjoying the immense pleasure he was giving you just as much as you seemed to enjoy it. A few moments later, you were once again coming apart against his mouth and he eagerly lapped up everything you had to give him.

This time as you tugged on his hair and squirmed away, he obliged, lifting himself up from between your thighs. He licked his lips as he looked down at your blissed out face.

"You taste like heaven, baby," he murmured. "Wanna taste?"

Your pretty (y/e/c) eyes widened and you nodded hesitantly. He smiled wolfishly as he leaned down to kiss you, tongue invading your mouth almost instantly, allowing you to taste yourself.

You moaned into the kiss and he held you even more tightly, lips sealed to yours like he needed your air to breathe.

He wasn't entirely sure how he'd managed to control his urges long enough to coax two orgasms from you, but he could feel that control waning. "I need you, baby," he whispered against your lips. "I need you so badly."

You looked up at him, a small smile playing on your lips. You lifted your hips to brush against his cock and he groaned at the contact. You nipped at his jaw and pulled him back down to you. "Fuck me, Dean. Please."

He groaned. "Yes ma'am."

He didn't hesitate as he gripped his cock firmly and lined it up with your entrance. He slipped inside easily, having plenty of lubrication to assist him. Despite having been inside of you multiple times at this point, he was still taken aback by how fucking incredible you felt.

"God, I love this pussy," he murmured. "She was made for me."

You moaned softly at his words and the feeling of him inside you once again. As he started to move, he was much more gentle and you found yourself enjoying the sensations--perhaps more than you should.

"You're so good for me, (Y/N)," Dean mumbled, already lost in the feeling of you.

You would have given anything to hear him say that, but the words broke your heart a little. Had he had any other choice, he likely wouldn't be here right now--you wouldn't be the one he was fucking.

"Hey," he whispered, a rough, calloused hand running along your cheek as he looked at you. "Where's that pretty little head at?"

You smiled at him. "Right here, Dean."

Somewhere inside of him, he knew you were lying, but the damn pollen was still affecting his senses. He accepted your response and went back to his actions, focusing on the feeling of your pussy wrapped around his cock like a vise.

He wanted to feel you cum one more time...wanted to feel the way you'd squeeze his cock as you came. He wanted to watch you come undone beneath him, lost in pleasure he gave you.

He grabbed a pillow and gently lifted your hips, sliding the pillow under them. This provided him a new, improved angle, allowing him to cage you beneath him and hit that sweet spot inside you.

"Dean!" you gasped as the first thrust hit your g-spot.

He grinned and picked up his pace, slamming into it repeatedly. Each thrust sent you closer to the edge of an orgasm you knew would ruin you. Dean Winchester already made you feel things no other man ever had and his ability in bed was no exception. Damn him.

His thrusts were firm and measured, each one sending wave after wave of pleasure crashing through your body. The familiar tightening in your gut was so intense you thought you might actually explode.

Dean's strong arms were on either side of your head and he was looking down at you with that same strange expression from earlier. "You're so damn beautiful, baby. I wanna watch this pretty face as you cum for me."

You gasped, unprepared for the way his words made you feel. You felt emboldened, so you asked for what you needed. "I need more, Dean."

His hand slipped between your bodies, a single finger gently massaging your clit as he continued to fuck you. "That better, baby?"

You nodded rapidly, earning a soft chuckle from his sweet lips.

"You gonna cum for me beautiful?"

You nodded again.

"Yeah? I want you to keep those pretty eyes open when you cum, okay? Wanna see you fall apart."

"Dean..." you whispered.

"I know, sweet girl. I've got you."

Your brain seemed to short-circuit in that moment. All you could feel was a blinding hot pressure immediately followed by an intense euphoria. You heard someone scream "Dean!" and you belatedly realized it had been your voice.

The intensity of your orgasm sent Dean spiraling over the edge of his own. He hadn't even been prepared for it--the mixture of you screaming his name and the sensations of you squeezing him so tightly and the gorgeous way your face contorted as you came was all he needed.

He emptied into you a third and final time, his cock finally beginning to soften as he helped you ride out your high.

He pulled out and flopped down beside you on the bed, his body aching from what had to be some of the best sex of his life--sex pollen or not.

You were just as sore as Dean--probably more so given you literally couldn't move. The two of you laid there in silence, slowly coming down from the electrical highs you'd experienced, both trying to catch your breath for the first time in what felt like hours.

Dean was the first to recover. "Did I hurt you?" he asked so softly you almost didn't hear him.

You turned your head to look at him and your heart clenched at the expression on his face. He was genuinely worried, brows furrowed in concern. You contemplated lying to him, but you knew he'd see right through you.

"A little," you said honestly.

He winced and his beautiful eyes closed. "I'm so sorry, (Y/N)--I would never hurt you on purpose--ever."

You offered him a small smile he couldn't see, until your hand touched his cheek and he opened his eyes again. "I know."

There were a thousand other things you wanted to say--a thousand words you wanted to string together into just the right sentences, but you couldn't. You wouldn't put yourself through it.

"Shower?" he asked softly.

"I honestly don't think I can stand."

A smirk played on his lips. "That should not make me feel so damn good."

You laughed lightly, glad to hear the teasing tone in his voice that you loved so much.

He managed to pull himself into a sitting position. "It's not ideal, but there is a bathtub..." he trailed off.

"I wouldn't mind a bath," you admitted.

He nodded and got to his feet. He was a little unsteady at first, but managed to make his way to the bathroom. You heard the water running as he filled up the tub.

You laid there thinking about everything that had just happened. This was a position you'd never imagined you'd be in--with anyone, let alone Dean Winchester.

You knew this wasn't something you were going to be able to forget about, but you hoped things would go back to normal between the two of you and eventually this would just be a funny story.

Suddenly, Sam's words from earlier snapped into your mind. "If it's meaningless, one and done. If it's someone you care about...that's another story."

One and done...one and done. This most definitely had not been a 'one and done' scenario. But didn't that mean...? No. No way. Impossible. Dean Winchester does NOT have feelings for you.

You began to rationalize your thought process. Maybe "care about" included a friendly relationship. Yeah...yeah that made the most sense. Of course Dean cares about you. You're his best friend. There couldn't possibly be anything more to it...right?

As if on cue, Dean stepped back into the room. "Bath's ready."

"Okay." You tried to pull yourself up, but you immediately fell back against the mattress, body too worn out to sustain any kind of movement.

Dean chuckled lightly and came up to the side of the bed. He pulled the pillow out from under your hips and slipped his arms under your body, hoisting you up bridal style.

"Jesus!" you yelled. "Put me down! I'm too heavy--you'll throw out your back."

Dean laughed. "Calm down, (Y/N). I just threw you around this bed repeatedly with zero issues. I promise I can carry you to the bathroom without dying."

"But--"

He glared at you and tightened his grip on you as if to prove his point. "Ain't a damn thing wrong with your body, so shut it."

Your mouth closed immediately. His words sent a jolt directly to your core and you were almost annoyed by it. As if three orgasms wasn't enough...

Dean very gently set you on your feet in the bathroom and slowly helped you into the tub. As soon as he got you into a seated position, he got into the tub as well, slipping in behind you.

"Umm...whatcha doing?"

"Taking a bath."

"Isn't the tub a bit small for both of us?"

You could feel him shrug behind you. "I think it's perfect size. Now come here." He grabbed your shoulders and gently pulled you back so you were laying against his chest. "That's better," he muttered.

Your mind began to race once again as you laid there, body tense and uncomfortable.

"Okay, (Y/N), I know you better than anyone, so don't you dare lie to me. Where's your head at?"

"I--" you sighed. "I'm not really sure how to feel."

He nodded. "I know you didn't want this--I feel like I had to literally force myself onto you and I hate that. I know you only agreed so I wouldn't die, but--"

"Woah--stop." You sat up and turned your head to face him. "That's not true at all. You didn't force me to do anything."

"Okay, maybe 'force' is the wrong word...but you did have sex with me to save my life. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?"

"I'm painfully aware," you muttered.

He ran his hand over his face. "I'm not saying any of this right."

"Then what are you trying to say?"

He bit his lip. "Remember what Sammy said? About...how long the effects would last?"

You nodded.

"Well in case you didn't notice, I had three orgasms."

"Both me and my very sore vagina noticed," you said lightly.

He sighed. "Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you, (Y/N)?"

You turned a little more so you could see his face better. He had that same look he'd had when he was making you feel incredible. "I need to hear you say it..." you whispered.

He nodded and leaned forward so his face was mere inches from yours. "He didn't mean 'care' as in 'we're friends, so I care about you'...he meant 'care' as in 'love'."

Your lips parted and you inhaled sharply.

"So you see, I don't just care about you as a friend...and I don't just love you as a friend...I'm in love with you."

"You--you love me?"

"In love," he repeated. "For as long as I can remember."

"You're in love--with me?"

He chuckled softly. "Who else would I be talking to, baby? Yes, I'm in love with you."

"I--I don't know--" you stuttered.

"The only thing you need to know is how you feel. Do you know how you feel about me, (Y/N)?" he whispered.

You nodded slowly.

"And?"

"I'm in love with you too."

He grinned widely. "Yeah?"

You nodded, cheeks turning red.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you back against him. He looked down at you with that expression he'd been wearing and you suddenly realized what it was...it was love--real, true, beautiful, heart aching love.

He leaned down and placed a soft kiss to your lips, which you returned in kind. He held you tightly, loving the feeling of your body in his arms.

"We better get cleaned up before this water gets cold," he said softly, lips pressing to your hair.

"Mhmm," you hummed.

He chuckled. "Don't you dare fall asleep on me, babe."

"But I'm comfortable," you whined.

He smiled against your cheek. "Give me five minutes to clean you up and then we can sleep, okay?"

You looked over at him and smiled. "Deal."

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[2-dsimp]

Hear me out... Yan priest with a non believer reader....like just imagine....Yan priest"you don't believe in heaven huh...then I'll take you to heaven...then continued to 💥 her....

Cw: 🔞NSFW MDNI🔞 Fem reader! Throatpie, coercion, corruption, dubcon, religious aspects, creampie, cum shower, slight humiliation, degradation, praise, overstimulation, Zebad turning you into a true believer

—————/—————/—————-/————/———

Zebad sighs in contentment as he watches you collapse onto the altar, his wet slick and cum covered shaft slipping out of your overused cunt with a wet pop. He takes a moment to admire your body, feeling his own softening member hardening with avengeance as he sees the marks and bruises he so graciously bestowed upon your skin. Before he quickly flips you over, ripping off your top with a gentle smile.

"Mmm, my lost Dove~ did this prayer session help to enlighten you by chance?"

The Priest hums with a twisted expression on his face confronting the non believer gasping for breath within his holy sanctum. Right before the lords eyes of the marble statue which stood tall above them and judged with a solemn stare.

He reached out a hand to firmly grasp onto your hair, his rock hard cock hovering near your lips. While he smacks his meat against your face, before nudging the tip of his leaking fat tip against your lips smearing it with your collective love juices from prior rounds.

"Oh how precious you are my dear, your pretty head looks as if it’s all empty inside. Allow me to fill it with something meaningful"

The Priest coos lovingly before he shoves his penis into your mouth, forcing it down your throat. He can feel your gag reflex kicking in, but he doesn't care. This was meant to teach you a lesson on how not to turn your back on the gracious blessings. That the lord could bestow to you if you’d just let your heart open fully to the wonders of the teachings he gives…

In all honesty Zebad was bullshitting about his preaching for a god he didn’t even have half a mind to remember the name of. He couldn’t care less about said god nor did he fathom entertaining the prestige beliefs of his pious church brethren. Why would he spend time trying to convert you into worshiping the lord when he could make you revere him as your sole savior.

"That's it, Love suck just like how we’ve practiced. Being such a good girl for me"

He purrs continuing to thrust into your mouth, his balls rubbing against your face as he uses you for his own pleasure. Grinning with satisfaction as he feels your fingers wrap around his thick length, your mouth still wrapped around it like a newborn. The corrupt holy official could feel his cock twitching with impatience, eager for your attention. He starts to buck his shaft inside your salivating mouth, relishing in the moist heat of your tongue sliding back and forth on his foreskin.

Yes, he’d make you utterly reliant on him for the rest of your days. Spend his sweet time training you, molding you into his perfect believer who’d only get on their knees and revere him as both your lover and guiding light to damnation. He alone would encompass the entirety of your mind, body, and soul.

"You’re gonna learn to accept me as your lover and savior and become an obedient bitch for me yes?"

Zebad coaxes with an sugarcoated timbre whilst he continues to rock his pelvis against your face, his body wracked with pleasure as he feels himself getting close to cumming again. He can ascertain how much your esophagus was tightening around his dick, making his balls twitch from the sensation. Of how he knows that you're so eager to please him.

"Oh what a delectable sheep you are, my darling~ so docile and compliant for me."

The Priest pants as he finally drives his shaft to the hilt, smacking his balls up against your drooling face. He lingers there for a moment, enjoying the tightness of your throat around him as you gag. He can feel his cum building up inside of him, and he knows that he's getting close to the edge.*

"Fuck, Dove, go on and take it! Take your lord and saviors cum like the good believer I know you are."

He starts to flood your taste buds with the peculiar taste of his gummy sperm, making you gag even more. The amount is too much for you to handle, so he spills the rest of his cum all over your tits and face in white beady rivulets. He grins with satisfaction as he watches his cum dripping down your body.

"Mmm, you look so beautiful covered in my cum perhaps I should make you walk around in it all day. And make it test of your faith towards me wouldn’t you say?”

Zebad goads, his voice low and seductive. Paired along with a devilish smile that was present on his face full of infatuation and obsession for his poor little sheep that wandered helplessly into his clutches.

[chococolte]

☼ — pietas maris

♱ : my take on sagau childe

including ☆! — him as a worshiper, and his reaction to being your lover ⛧

word count. 5.6k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl. ୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. now time for me to disappear back into the aether for another 6 months

The abyss is cold.

It is unfeeling, lacking warmth and passion. It is relentless, cruel, and unkind. It corrupts, ruins, and does so freely, without remorse or thought. It leaves you clinging to the hot blood in your veins, curled up and hidden in the dark reaches of its void.

Childe had always been versatile; quick to adapt, even at such a young age. He grew used to the emptiness, the swelling numbness, and the eventual gnawing loneliness left in his abdomen. They became a part of him as his lungs, as integral as air; to be without felt odd, foreign.

The glimmer of your existence kept Childe company. He did not know who you were, or how lucky he was— only that you brought him comfort, like an old lullaby, or a blanket worn from overuse. He reached for you when the darkness grew too much, too heavy a burden on his small shoulders.

He came to you with little offerings; small trinkets, tomes of unreadable text. Useless to him, but perhaps you would take pity on him in exchange, and let him take comfort in your presence for another day. Childe came to you with rubble shaped in hearts, the gentle breath of his voice as he spoke of his anxieties. He did not think of them as offerings then, merely gifts— pleadings for you to stay a little longer.

His hands, then unruined and soft, made you a makeshift altar crafted out of whatever he could find. He made sure to build it where he felt your whispers were strongest, where your light entirely overwhelmed the darkness overhead. Childe didn't think of it as an altar then, just a place to settle his findings, where he could pretend his sad, little effigy made of you was actually you.

The idol didn't look much like a person at all, and at the time, he didn't think of his behavior as odd. He desperately clung to you for survival, and with no other warm body besides his own, you were the only one he could talk too.

At times, he thought he was going insane. There was a pleasant buzzing in his ears whenever he neared your doll, as if it were calling him. Despite the fact that he had made it, proven by the tiny scars on his palms, he still felt as if it was yours.

In the darkness, Childe whispered to you. He said everything his mind could think, childishly exaggerated tales in hopes of impressing you. A foolish endeavor, considering you were a God— but he still hoped that maybe you'd think of him kindly, and let him bask in your protective glow for just one more moment.

He couldn't hear your words, but he could feel them. The twinkle of your laughter was like a soft whistle in his ears. When you were pleased, the air would lightly ruffle his hair. Despite how agonizing his loneliness was, at least he had you by his side.

Childe's innocence, as all things do, eventually withered away in that malevolent black.

He thought of you as his teacher; a guiding hand that trained him, molded him to fit against your palm. When he struggled against the abyssal beasts, he could feel you— a soft brush against his hand, a firm hold on his back, keeping him focused. You taught him when to still his blade and when to strike.

In the arches of his sword and polearm, in the taut and tense pull of his bow, in the whirlwind of his catalyst— you were there, shining from beyond the thin veil separating you.

When Childe was ripped out of the abyss, so was his connection to you. Like a thread snapping, he could no longer feel you; not in the darkness overhead, not in the grip of his blade, of the depths of his soul. You were gone, and he was once again nothing but a boy, lost and alone. Friends and family surround him, thankful for his return, but his mind is still reeling, still stuck in the abyss and the sudden emptiness left in your wake.

Despite himself, Childe had hoped you would have stayed, even once he was out. He thought he was done with being naïve, but that clearly wasn't the case.

He can’t feel you anymore. Where did you go? Why did you leave? What did he do wrong? Questions swirl in his head like whirlpools of thought. Childe feels like he's drowning, suffocating in the mess of his mind. His breaths come out short, quick and sharp. His throat squeezes, constricting his airways, as he realizes what's unfolded.

You left him.

He should've known better. On that first day, all you had done was take pity on him by letting him linger in your light. It was his fault for ever believing that he would never have to be alone again. That even if he had no one else, at least he had you.

This was the result of his own failure. If only he had proven himself worthy.

When his family found him, they found him gripping a small, rudimentary doll. Even when they reached their home, Childe was still clutching the thing as if possessed. When they tried tugging it out of his hands, saying it would help him eat better, he ripped it from their grasp, holding it to his chest.

Childe couldn't accept that you had left him so easily. At night, back in his warm bed, Childe tries to whisper to you again. The familiar warmth sinks into his pores, but it's nothing like yours. He nuzzles closer to the doll, ignoring how it tears into his skin.

"I'm here," he whispers.

Maybe you got confused. He knows you're a God, but even the Seven are not omniscient. When he was torn from the abyss, it was possible you hadn't meant to so cruelly cut the connection between you. Maybe you couldn't find him, and so he just has to tell you where he is.

So he whispers to you in the dark, just as he has so many times before.

Only this time, he's met with silence.

In the years that pass, you linger at the forefront of his mind, haunting him like a wraith. Childe can't bring himself to be rid of you, despite how it hurts every time he thinks about you for a little too long. He's still stuck, perpetually waiting for your return, despite how he knows you've long given him up.

Childe becomes Tartaglia, the 11th Harbinger under the Tsaritsa. He takes a new name, a new mask— he executes her orders dutifully, and he does his role perfectly. He acts as if she's you, despite how desperately he wants to believe otherwise. If he closes his eyes for long enough, he can pretend that the cold that seeps into his bones in her presence is yours.

But no matter how many names and identities he takes, he'll always just be your Ajax; the boy who still misses you, despite how short your time together was. And that fact is what burns him the most.

Maybe he should be angry. He knows he has every right to be. Angry that you left him, that you discarded him as if he was nothing. Maybe he should hate you— hate you for leaving him alone, as if you weren't the only thing keeping him sane. Hate you for leaving as if his love didn't matter to you.

He comforts himself by thinking of the time dilation he experienced in the abyss. You cared for him so much that you spun three days into three months. He likes to believe he meant something to you; he must've, because why else would you lengthen your time spent together?

Childe knows it isn't true. He didn't matter enough for you to stay, after all.

At night, Childe finds himself listlessly thinking of you. It's a silent mourning. Quiet tears fall down his cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath his head. He chokes down every heaving sob that threatens to break from his throat; clenches his jaw when they claw too close to his lips. He slaps a hand over his mouth when he's too loud, biting his fingers until they're bloody and marred by his teeth. What would you think if you saw him this weak? Saw the boy you built up crumble, all because he can't feel even the softest traces of your presence anymore?

You would find him pathetic. All he's done is prove that you were right in abandoning him.

When the memory of you is too much to bear, he clutches the effigy in his arms, squeezing it against his chest until it's sharp edges dig into his skin. Even after all these years, he's still kept it close. He tries to feel the visage of you that was once attached to its bearings, whispering for you under the night sky, hoping it'll remind you of your time in the abyss— hoping that tonight he will feel you again, ruffling his hair with tendrils of wind.

He never does.

Childe barely sleeps, but when he does, he dreams of you. You have no body, no face— he can't even begin to imagine what you look like, and he doesn't dare too, even when he knows he has nothing to lose.

He's back in the dark, but you're still there with him, providing him light and comfort. If he knew that leaving would entail being without you, he never would have left at all. Better to be with you than to die without.

Sometimes, he dreams of you staying with him even after he escapes. Your warmth is ever-present. He gifts you riches, now. You have a voice in his dreams, and he can hear you speaking to him. You're kind, and gentle, and he wants for nothing. He has you, and there is nothing more to want.

He dreams he never lost you at all. It makes reality all the more painful.

In a way he knows is pathetic, Childe hopes you at least found him fun. He hopes you found him entertaining, despite how the thought twists his heart and guts into little knots, until he feels vaguely nauseous at the notion. At least then you would have reason to remember him. At least he could say he meant something to you.

In a hidden corner of his room, there sits an altar for you. His wealth as a Harbinger means he has no lack of resources, and so he bejewels the altar until it glimmers even without light. It's obnoxious and opulent to the point of vanity, but he figures that if you like it, he'll earn another whisper of warmth from you— in the vain hope that you hear him at all anymore.

With his hands, now calloused and worn, he carves sigils into whalebone. He doesn't know what they mean, but they were numerous in the abyss; and so he etches them into bone, hoping that whatever they mean, it reaches you.

Childe pushes himself more than he should. His back aches from all the weight he carries on his shoulders, but he trudges forward despite how it hurts. He is more fervent in conflicts, and spectacular scenes of blood and viscera follow him every time he walks onto a battlefield.

His tongue forms words of devotion for the Tsaritsa as he slays another enemy, blood staining his fingers, but in his heart, he only ever speaks of you.

When he fights, Childe can lose himself. He can focus entirely on the movement of his feet, the precision of his blade. He can ignore how badly he misses you, and how in the back of his mind, he desperately hopes that the more blood he sheds with your teachings, you'll find him satisfactory.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins, and once again he lets himself be drowned by the rush, letting himself forget all of his pain.

Childe is proud of the way that no one can recognize his style of fighting. It is exact and sharp— every strike hitting its target with ease, filled with vigor and intensity. He enjoys the gazes of jealousy, but remains silent when asked. My teacher taught me, he says. He sheds no further light on the matter, and any instance someone shows interest in learning from him, he instantly refuses. Childe wishes to keep you close to his chest, a guarded secret known only to him.

Childish, perhaps. He knows it is. But if he can't have you, then he will have the knowledge of you. He will keep it to himself, and there it will stay, safe in his tight grip. 

It drives him insane, the way sees you in everything. When night falls, covering the sky in a blanket of stars, he wonders if you're staring at him from above. When the tides of the sea brush against the shore, he finds himself thinking of you as the moon— you are what anchors him, despite the fact that he hasn't felt you in so long. In his eyes, there is nothing you could not be, and with every breath, he only ever misses you more.

It's during his mission in Liyue that he feels you again. Childe is unable to breathe when he meets the Traveler, sensing you watching from their eyes. His heart thunders in his chest, tempestuous as a storm over the sea.

For a moment, he's happy. You're finally back. He wants nothing more than to run to you, to ask you why you left for so long, to ask how he can make you stay, but then he feels you— a familiar pressure bearing down on him, forcing him to say anything but what he wants to.

Childe watches the Traveler's back fade as it finally clicks for him.

You abandoned him for someone else. You left him... for this. The thought sends him reeling. You left him, just to go spend time with someone else— to give them the same company you gave him, to give them the same guidance you gave him— was he merely replaceable to you?

Was he just a test for you?

He should be angry. And he is, but the heartbreak overwhelms him. He's left choking, battling for air. The agony of having been tossed to the side, of having it be affirmed in front of his eyes. He wants to scream and cry, beg for you to return; but his throat squeezes every time he meets the Traveler, and the words die on his tongue.

You don't want him to speak. He's meant to play along.

Childe had waited for you for so long. Even after all this time, he couldn't get rid of the painful hope that you'd return. He had done his best to bottle his emotions, to keep them shut and locked inside, so that you wouldn't be disappointed in him upon your arrival. Proud that he never doubted you for a moment.

But he had. He had doubted you, cried at the lack of your comfort. Afraid of what it meant to be without you. Fearful of living, never getting to gleam your existence for a second time— and now you want him to pretend as if he never knew you.

As if he can't see the slight smugness in the Traveler's eyes.

His fight with the Traveler is personal. He bares his teeth, snarling like a rabid dog. His every strike is fast, precise with the intent to kill and maim. Childe hopes his emotions reach you, that you know of his bitterness and acrimony. That you know of how long he wished for you, how long he yearned for you to come back— how his frustration has twisted into pure rage, turned into a fine point. 

He just has to simply show you how he's better. He has to show you that he's superior in every way to your choice. That you should've chosen him over them. 

They are undeserving; watch how he rips through them like they are nothing, slicing through them like they are mist over sea. They are unworthy; see how easily he beats them into submission, how easily they crumble at his feet. The matter of the Gnosis is nothing to him, now— only whether you see how he should be the one you prefer. 

It's then that he feels it. Your rage. Your anger at having been battered and bruised. The Traveler stands back up, but something is different now. Their strikes are fluid, prowess and skill increased by an outside force. 

You. 

Do you hate him that badly? Detest him so much, to go so far as to bless another with your strength so they can prove themselves to be his better? Even in his Foul Legacy form, Childe is forced to retreat; forced to bow his head in defeat, weakened by the burden of his transformation.

The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He's done the exact opposite of what he set out to do. All he's proven is that your right.

Childe feels your crushing weight bearing down on him. He spits the words out, calls them 'friend' through clenched teeth. He dances to your whims, just as he had previously. Unnatural, stiff movements and words that speak the opposite of what he means. 

And then you're gone, left along with them. He stares at their fading back. He can almost imagine you beside them, walking by their side just as you once did his. 

It hurts.

The next time he feels you, there is no sign of the Traveler. Only a tight pulling in his chest. 

He doesn't know what it means, or what it entails. But he follows, sensing you at the end, waiting for him. Childe doesn't allow himself to hope; that maybe, you have come around. That maybe you do care. That maybe, you never hated him— not truly. That you missed him just as he missed you. 

Maybe he meant something, after all.

When he reaches you, he feels it. You're happy. You're happy with him. He feels you reaching out, tickling him with strands of your will. You brush against his skin, burrow deep inside. Childe lets you, still unable to breathe.

He wonders if this is really happening. Have you come back to him, truly? Have you finally realized how much better he is? He feels you graze his soul, reaching deep within. Childe feels you envelop him, swathing him in warmth and comfort. 

You're home, you whisper. 

He only hears the ghost of your voice, a chime in the wind; but he hears the intent, the meaning behind your unintelligible words, even though he can't understand them. 

Childe breaks. 

SANGUINE NATUS ; first meeting/as a worshiper

If even just your breath could leave him weak, then seeing you for the first time makes his knees give out underneath him.

It's a foolishly embarrassing display, but Childe can't find it in himself to care. He falls to his knees quicker than his mind can catch up, unconsciously posturing himself to make himself seem as small and harmless as possible— anything to make you stay, even if it means sabotaging his image.

He tucks his shoulders inward, struggling between looking at you until his eyes burn and your image is seared into the back of his eyelids, or averting his gaze because just touching you with them feels like he's sullying you somehow.

His breath comes out short and sharp, his entire chest heaving with each shuddering, raspy exhale. Before he can even manage a sound, he's sobbing, crumpling to the floor— there's no care taken to your perception of him now, only the wailful cries of one lost in the weight of your eyes. Childe knows he's being pathetic, a mess of airy desperation and red eyes; everything he was when he felt the ghost of you leave him, and everything he wished you'd never see. But it's you, and for the first time, he can truly feel your eyes on him.

It's all too much to bear.

"I-It's you, it's you—!" Childe manages to choke, wet tears caking the apples of his face. His eyes strain, burning to see the visage of you through the blur of his vision. Nausea bites at him, his abdomen a sudden storm from the tears that lick at his cheeks.

Childe has always been austere in his worship; strict, solemn in how he acts out every religious rite. There is an icy silence unlike him as he moves, particularly whenever your sanctity is involved. His fingers still tremble despite his stiffness, the desperation loud in every twitch of his limbs. The desire to see you, after all is said and done.

Seeing you for the first time feels as though a wave has overtaken him, drowning him in brine and the cerulean of muddy waters. There is no hiding what he could barely contain before— jerky movements filled with need and the dolor of one disappointed before.

Childe no longer finds himself able to veil it by lies and rushing fights of adrenaline; now, it lies bare, and there's no burning ache to keep it hidden.

His fervor is relentless; a feverish desire to please you coalescing until it's unbearable for his skin. Your reaction to his cries could have been cruel or kind, and it wouldn't have bothered him; all that matters is whether he has finally proven himself worthy of standing by your side.

His worship is eager words spilling from his lips at night, the echo of your name a murmur from his mouth like the sigh of the ocean's waves-- his blades stained red, limp at his sides-- the burning in the back of his throat that comes from years of pleading.

You're here now, even if he can't be with you at all times; and that knowledge leaves him whispering to you, uttering every thought without a moment of reconsideration. It is a ceaseless endeavor, as every word is listless praise and endless adoration. There isn't a moment where he isn't thinking of you in some way, and the mere thought of the opposite leaves him feeling vaguely sick.

He wants to think of you all the time. Though it's such a small thing, in his mind, he has you all to himself— in the sense that there is no one else to take your eyes off of him— there, he can make you happy; there, he can make you proud of him. In that world, you have no reason to be rid of him.

Childe's always kept his habit of crafting you makeshift gifts. They're rugged, imperfect things, but laden with his fingerprints and the palms of his hands. Before, he could only set them still on his altar for you, and hope that it pleased you somehow. He was only ever met with silence, but he could pretend you were happy with him, and the idea alone was enough.

When he catches sight of a sea conch, its pale marks swirled across its smooth surface, he can only think of handing it to you. It's a beautiful thing, and so simple and crude a gift; but maybe you will find worth in such a thing, the simplicity of its nature, and praise him for it.

He gives them to you physically now, unable to shake the urge to do so. His hands always tremble when he hands them over, his knees threatening to buckle underneath him whenever your fingers brush against his. He will never fail to drown in the sensation, allowing everything that he is to become thoughts of you.

Childe has always worshiped you in bloodshed. In the past, he hoped it would leave you satisfied enough to come back; now, it's to prove how much better he is than everyone else. His fear runs deep, like cracks in the earth far below the water's surface, and the sickening feeling of dread whenever you praise someone else suffocates him.

It's unreasonable, he knows, and he has no reason to fear, not anymore— but his heart still quickens at the thought, and his stomach still twists.

It's an all too familiar feeling. When he was first torn from you, he felt as though his heart had been ripped right out of him; and the panic he feels only reminds him of it.

When he's inevitably forced away from you on another mission, he deals with it as quickly as possible, no matter how bloodied or bruised he leaves it. He is brutally unkind in his workings, his words always terse and clipped; a slight edge that never really seems to go away until he knows you're somewhere nearby.

It's when he's forced to stay away from you for a longer period of time that he breaks completely. Upon his return, he is instantly back at your side, heaving sobs and ugly tears running down his face. He can barely think, and a flurry of slurred words leaves his lips— begging to never leave your side again.

Childe knows better than to think he is deserving of your kindness, but he’s desperate to at least stay in your shadow. There, he could stay near you, even if he was swathed in black— even if his only glimpse of you was your back, he would be in bliss. To be near you in some form is all he could ever ask of you.

For all of the power you have granted him, it's only right that he use it for you. A mere word from anyone that isn't pure praise has his grip on his weapon tightening, the tendons on his hand taut and his knuckles pale. He remains entirely oblivious to any moral ambiguity in your actions— whatever you do is right and just; as you are the only one worthy of judging yourself, he does not dare too.

Instead, Childe draws his blade in judgement of others— he will act as your hand and executioner, the arbiter of your faith; it's with only vigor that he hands out punishment, a ferocity bold and true.

AMANS IN SPINIS IACET ; as your lover

Childe's dreams have begun to take a sudden turn.

It's not anything he can control, despite how hard he tries too. They pleased him at first, even though he still couldn't help the way his heart tightened at the idea of you somehow knowing. At that time, they weren't occurring enough for him to be worried, and the content themselves were innocent enough for him to think nothing of it.

You held him close to you, pressing benign kisses across his freckled cheeks, playing with his hair with soft fingers; little things that he could believe meant nothing at all, just a desire to feel your affection in the only way his mortal heart knew how.

The dreams turn nightly, and Childe finally realizes it's much more than that.

It begins at signs of your favoritism. Glances that last more than they should, summoning him to your chambers more frequently; Childe does not deny you, and he can't help the faint giddiness that clouds his mind every time he feels your gaze linger on him. It's a euphoric sensation to know that he is the one you are looking at; no one else. Only barely does he manage to rein in his emotions every time.

You speak much softer to him, and your touch is more affectionate. He turns drunk on your approval, willingly dancing to your whims if it meant having your fingers coiled in his hair for another moment. Before he can stop himself for even daring to think it, Childe lets himself believe he's special to you— and that is where the problem arises.

The thoughts don't stop. Even if he screams to drown out the noise, they still manage to be so loud. The dreams are relentless, more loving, more vivid. He can feel the warmth of your palms as you caress his cheeks, the weight of your breath when you draw your head near; they feel so real, that for a moment, he thinks you're the one sending them to him.

He feels as though he's dirtying you in some form, as if he is the one committing an unforgivable sin against you; somehow managing to desecrate you with just his thoughts alone. The idea sends him into a panic-induced frenzy, kneeling before his altar with rushed, unintelligible apologies on his lips.

Despite his self-hatred, whenever he wakes from one, Childe is left blissfully dazed, nuzzling into his pillow with hazy clarity— pretending that it's you, instead. He wonders what it would be like if his dreams were real, if he could really be so special to you in such a way; entirely irreplaceable, entirely yours.

It doesn't take long for his will to be eroded by his desperation. His desire to resist was already hanging by a thread, and as the dreams persist, any resistance on his end is lost. He falls ever deeper into an abyss of his own making, allowing himself to be undone by his own creation.

Childe has always been needy, but as his feelings rear their ugly head, it only grows worse. He has always loved you— and he had been struggling to choke his own feelings down for as long as he could, fooling himself into believing that they didn't exist in the first place. In his eyes, it's only right that you be the one to shake the foundation he lay; making him crumble until every dark part of himself is laid bare in front of you, only for your eyes.

There's a drastic increase in his desperation to be near you, and any lack of refusal on your part only exacerbates it. He neglects his duties entirely in favor of staying by you in some way or another, be it either by your side, or following you from a distance like a lost puppy.

Your admittance of feelings only makes Childe more fervent. He can barely hear himself speak, his heart fluttering against his ribcage like a caged canary. He can barely believe anything you're saying, and for a moment, he wonders if he's lost in another dream of his.

At your assurance, Childe doesn't dare to doubt you any longer. He falls entirely into you, allowing you to consume his every thought. He doesn't think to fight back, letting you envelop him until his every breath is coated in your name. He is yours, and he has no desire for anything more.

His desire for your approval now emboldens him. Childe's always acted out of an interest in garnering your attention, and though he now knows of your feelings, it does nothing to satiate him; instead, it leaves him hungrier, greedy with an eagerness to please.

He doesn't take from you without asking, but he asks enough for it to be a nuisance. Your affection is everything to him, and he can't bear to go a moment without it. He asks to lay his head in your lap, for you to play with his hair— the loss of your touch is the loss of himself, and sends him reeling back to memories of when he was without you.

The first time you kiss him, his legs instantly give out underneath him, a small groan leaving his lips. Childe doesn't bother to dull his reactions; you deserve to know how easily weakened he is by your touch, with even a brush of your fingers enough to leave him breathless and wanting.

As your favorite, Childe is quick to be rid of any competition. Whether or not you see them as possible suitors doesn't even cross his mind— the fear that snakes around his heart is ever-present, and if they're better than him in some form, it only grows in persistence. He doesn't hurt them, because surely that would upset you, and any devotee of you is worthy of respect— but he is quick to showcase his superiority, and to do so broadly without shame.

Childe grows used to his new status, and uses it to stay by your side constantly. Any attention you give to others is met with instant jealousy, seething glares sent to whoever stole your gaze, even if they only preoccupied a second of your mind.

He could never be mad at you, as clearly the fault lies within himself.

Any signs of your likes and dislikes are instantly noted. If you compliment someone for their behavior, he begins to emulate it, or at least he tries too. If you like Zhongli for how well he executes your orders, then Childe will be the same; only he will do it better, quicker, and prove himself still deserving of your love.

If he were perfect, then you would have no need for anyone else. If he were perfect, he would never have to worry about whether you'll grow bored of him the moment he stops being entertaining enough.

The thought of you with another leaves Childe sick without fail. He knows he has no control over you, and that if you wished to be rid of him, he would willingly walk into whatever punishment awaited him— but now that he has tasted what it feels like to be so utterly yours, he can't bear to imagine another sharing the same treatment.

You kissing another, holding another, letting someone else lay against you; all of it only serves to further blur his vision. Even if it is sinful of him to feel, he can't stop the emotions from swirling in his chest.

You are everything; the earth laid beneath his feet, the foundation of which he relies on. To be without you is to fall, to be without you means death; and if he must carve his skin and bone to fit the picture you want him to be, then he shall.

[sturnlovaa]

°•. IMAGINE — Christopher Sturniolo taking away your purity.

cw.. virginity loss, unprotected p n v, pet names, praising, overstimulation.

based of this ask !

as you lay upon the rumpled, silken sheets of your bed, Chris traces delicate patterns down your body with his fingertips, his touch as light as a whisper. his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, are locked onto yours, and in them, you see an almost reverent adoration.

his hands continue their slow descent, caressing your curves with a gentle reverence. he leans down, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone, down to your breasts, where he worships each one with tender devotion. his touch is gentle, almost reverential, as if he's kneeling before a sacred altar.

his hands glide down to your hips, then to your thighs, parting them gently. he settles between them, his gaze never leaving yours, the intensity of his emotion almost overwhelming.

as he slowly enters you, inch by agonizing inch, you feel your eyes well up with tears. you bite your lower lip, determined not to break the intense eye contact you share. your breath hitches, and a single tear escapes, rolling down your cheek as he fully sheaths himself inside you.

he leans down, kisses the tear away, whispering, "i've got you, baby. let it out," his voice is soft, encouraging. he begins to move inside you, his hips rocking back and forth in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

you close your eyes, trying to draw your focus away from the initial discomfort, a soft whimper escaping your lips. Chris leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "look at me, ma. please. let me see those pretty eyes,"

you open your eyes, tears streaming down your face now as he continues to move inside you. the pain is still there, but his gaze is so tender, so loving, that you can't help but cling to him, burying your face in his shoulder as another sob escapes you.

he holds you close, one hand cradling your head against his shoulder, the other hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back. he keeps his pace gentle, letting you adjust to him, his breath warm against your hair as he whispers soft reassurances, "you can take it baby,"

as he continues to hold you and comfort you, you start to relax slightly, your body beginning to adjust to his presence inside you. the pain lessens, replaced by a strange, tingling sensation that makes you shiver. he notices the change and slows his movements even further, kissing your forehead tenderly.

you look up at him, your eyes red and puffy from crying, and he smiles softly. "better?" he asks, his voice gentle. you nod, feeling a bit more calm, a bit more centered.

he starts to move again, his hips rolling in a slow, sinuous motion. he watches your face closely, his own expression a mix of concentration and concern. "let me know if it's too much, okay?" he murmurs.

you nod, your gaze locked onto his as he continues to move inside you. the sensation is intense, a slow-building pressure that makes you gasp and cling to him. you can feel your body tensing, your breathing growing faster as he hits a spot that makes your toes curl. "Chris.."

"shh, I've got you," he murmurs, leaning down to capture your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. ge grinds his hips against yours, hitting that spot over and over again, his body worshiping yours in a primal, age-old rhythm.

his hands roam over your body, caressing, squeezing, worshiping. he breaks the kiss, burying his face in the curve of your neck, his hot breath fanning against your skin as he murmurs your name like a prayer. "you feel so good,"

he lifts his head, his eyes blazing with adoration as he gazes at you. He brushes his lips against yours, then against your cheek, your forehead, your closed eyes. he kisses every inch of your face, worshipping you with his mouth as his hips continue to move in a slow, driving rhythm.

as he kisses his way down your face, he reaches your neck and sinks his teeth gently into the tender skin, marking you as his. he sucks and nips at your neck, leaving a trail of love bites as he continues to move inside you.

you tilt your head to the side, granting him better access as he worships your neck. the dual sensation of his teeth on your skin and his hips slowly thrusting into you is intoxicating. you can feel your body tightening around him, your breath hitching in your throat as the pleasure builds.

he finally releases your neck, his mouth leaving a reddened mark on your skin. he leans back slightly, his eyes never leaving yours as he starts to pick up the pace. his thrusts become more urgent, his hips snapping against yours in a relentless rhythm. "look at me,"

your breath comes in short pants now, your body tensing as the pleasure becomes almost too much to bear. his gaze holds yours captive, those stormy blue eyes blazing with love and desire. "touch yourself," he rasps, "show me how you like it, baby,"

your hand trembling, you reach down between your bodies, your fingers tentatively finding your swollen bud. you start to touch yourself, your fingers moving in time with his thrusts. he watches hungrily, his jaw clenched as he grinds into you, his pace quickening.

"just like that," he growls, his free hand reaching out to cover yours. he guides your fingers to the right spot, showing you how he knows you like it. you obey, rubbing yourself in time with his thrusts, the pressure building to a crescendo.

“it's... too much," you gasp, your body convulsing as the pleasure becomes almost unbearable. he leans down to kiss you, swallowing your moans as he continues to thrust into you, his hand still guiding yours between your bodies.

"let go," he murmurs against your lips, his fingers curling around yours to apply just the right pressure. your body tenses, your back arching as you do as he says, the wave of pleasure crashing over you.

Chris buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body growing rigid as he finds his own release. he thrusts into you a few more times, his movements jerky and uncoordinated as he comes undone. he collapses on top of you, his breath hot against your skin.

"mmm, you okay?" he murmurs, lifting his head to look at you. his face is flushed, his hair disheveled, and his eyes heavy-lidded. he looks content, sated. he looks happy.

you nod, still trying to catch your breath. "yeah," you manage to say, smiling up at him. "just give me a minute," and he kisses your forehead in response.

"we've got all night," he whispers, nuzzling your neck. "and i fully intend to spend it making you forget your own name," he punctuates his words with kisses, his hands already roaming over your body, eager to start round two.

you let out a soft laugh, your body already protesting at the thought. "i don't think i can handle another round. i'm exhausted,"

he pouts, his lower lip sticking out in a adorable display. "but i wasn't finished worshipping you yet," he whines. he nips at your shoulder, his hand squeezing your backside possessively. "please, my love, just one more time,"

©sturnlovaa

matt version

— tags

@shadowthesim , @ifwdominicfike , @sturniolo04 , @mattsdolll , @sturncakez , @jetaimevous , @biiatrizzz , @blahblogs-stuff , @chlotapcs , @poolover123 , @55sturn , @franticroads , @brvtall , @gwennybenny , @starlace111 , @luvs4matt , @lov3bug .

[mahgyu]

Thinking about Nanami, who always warned her not to be upset if he didn't cry during their wedding ceremony.

Yes, it's obvious that he loves her more than anything in the world. He would face anyone to keep her safe above all else, but Nanami doesn't consider herself the type to express her emotions through the crying, whether they are good or bad.

So, as the wedding date approaches, Nanami begins to prevent any possible disappointment, trying to reassure her that, even if he doesn't cry at their wedding, he will be more than happy and fulfilled with the occasion. You clearly wouldn't expect anything like that from him, but Nanami started to fear that you might find him a bit rude for not getting emotional during the most important day of your lives. But, you and Nanami have been together long enough for you to know every aspect of him, knowing him from the first strand of hair to the last toe. You would never find him rude for dealing with his emotions in his own way.

However, we truly only know how to deal with situations when they are happening before our eyes. Holding the wedding ceremony on the beach was of both decision, just for close family and friends. Nanami stood beneath the altar, trying to cope with the growing anxiety as he heard the wedding march begin to play. In the distance, you appeared, resembling a princess from a fairy tale, the one and only and exclusive princess of Kento Nanami.

Time stood still, the entire journey of you two together flashed through Nanami's mind. He never believed he would live this, always dedicating his life solely to work and refraining from relationships. He doesn't even dare to think what would become of him if you had never accidentally bumped into him at the bakery Nanami frequented. The icing from your cake that ended up staining Nanami's suit also marked the beginning of your conjugal life.

All Nanami had in mind now was to build a family with you, to move to a peaceful environment in a big enough house to comfortably accommodate all the children he dreams of having, to come home from work and be greeted by the people he loves most and lives for. And as he grows older, to carefully enjoy what remains of life alongside the family he built, next to the woman he loved the most and with whom he could share every dream fulfilled.

And after all, Nanami was mistaken, tears trickled slowly down his face, clouding your smiling image that was coming towards him.

When you joined him at the altar, with the sunset kissing your face, your eyes shining with tears that also flooded them, and your smile that would be able to bring Nanami back to life, Kento could swear that this would be the image that he would carry with him forever and ever.

"I thought you said you wouldn't cry," you break the silence jokingly while holding one of Nanami's slightly trembling hands and, with your other hand, wiping the glistening drops off the man's cheeks. "You can't blame me for loving too much," he responds, smiling genuinely, while briefly kissing your forehead.

The truth is Gojo would be sitting in the front row, crying even louder and more dramatically than the bride and groom themselves while blowing his nose with a handkerchief ( ˃ ᵕ ˂ )

Let me know what you think of it. Comments and reblogs are appreciated! <3

[demifiendrsa]

Hades II - Reveal Trailer

Hades II will launch in Early Access for PC via Steam and Epic Games Store in 2023.

Key visual

Overview

About

The first-ever sequel from Supergiant Games builds on the best aspects of the original god-like rogue-like dungeon crawler in an all-new, action-packed, endlessly replayable experience rooted in the Underworld of Greek myth and its deep connections to the dawn of witchcraft.

Key Features

Battle Beyond the Underworld – As the immortal Princess of the Underworld, you’ll explore a bigger, deeper mythic world, vanquishing the forces of the Titan of Time with the full might of Olympus behind you, in a sweeping story that continually unfolds through your every setback and accomplishment.

Master Witchcraft and Dark Society – Infuse your legendary weapons of Night with ancient magick, so that none may stand in your way. Become stronger still with powerful Boons from more than a dozen Olympian gods, from Apollo to Zeus. There are nearly limitless ways to build your abilities.

Mingle with (More) Gods, Ghosts, and Monsters – Meet a cast of dozens of fully-voiced, larger-than-life characters, including plenty of new faces and some old friends. Grow closer to them through a variety of new interactions, and experience countless unique story events based on how your journey unfolds.

Every Run is its Own Adventure – New locations, challenges, upgrade systems, and surprises await as you delve into the ever-shifting Underworld again and again. Reveal the mysteries of the Arcana Altar, tame witchy familiars, and gather reagents using Tools of the Unseen to get closer to your goal.

The Perks of Immortality – Thanks to a variety of permanent upgrades and the return of God Mode, you don’t have to be a god yourself to experience what Hades II has to offer. But if you happen to be one, you can brave escalating challenges for greater rewards, and prove just how divine you really are.

Signature Supergiant Style – Rich, atmospheric presentation and storytelling fused with responsive action is the hallmark of Supergiant’s titles. Vivid new hand-painted environments, even smoother real-time 3D characters, and an electrifying original score make this mythic world burst with life.

Coming to Early Access

Getting player feedback through key phases of development was vital for the original Hades, so we plan to reprise that process once more, once this game is further along.

[tremendouslybeautifulsimz]

Music Tv Vol. 2

Under The Cut

New Mesh

300 Swatches (separated in 2 packages)

Functional As Radio

Deco Version

Music Included

*Since there are 150 swatches in each part I highly recommend scrolling through the swatches in build & buy so all of them will show*

Details

So The tv is functional as a radio so it gives the appearance that you actually have your Apple Music playing on the tv.

Now the lyrics DO NOT SCROLL like they do on apple products. It's for aesthetic purposes only.

There Will Be A Video Of How It Looks In Game On My Instagram

This Comes With a Functional & Deco Version. Music Is Also Included

Last but not least since you guys voted for a dump, I will not be doing any future volumes unless you guys' request for me to.

This separated in two packages so you guys will be able to see all swatches.

How To Make Sure The Music Plays Correctly In Game

Step 1: Put music in Hip-Hop folder.

Step 2: Go To Music Settings And Uncheck All Sims Music

Step 3: Only Your Music Should Play

Early Access, Public 1.11.24

Do Not Share My Content (Always Free After 2-3 Weeks except Blender content)

Recolors Allowed Do Not Include My Mesh

Do Not Use/Altar My Mesh To Make Your Own Content

DO NOT CONVERT TO ANY OTHER GAMES

Do NOT Share IN Discords, Facebook Groups or Give Away In CC Folders.

*STOP PUTTING MY CONTENT IN FOLDERS AND PUTTING THEM BEHIND A PAYPALL*

IF THERE ARE ANY ISSUES PLEASE BE SURE TO LET ME KNOW VIA MY IG DMS!!!!

IF YOU USE ANY OF MY CC PLEASE TAG ME ON IG I WOULD

[grey-sorcery]

New to witchcraft? Awesome! Here's some things you should pursue.

An understanding of sympathetic magic: Correspondences, their metaphysical and theoretical framework, and their derivation.

Magical systems that incorporate the entire gender spectrum.

Energy work that isn't based on visualization.

The means of manifestation: How, where, and when spells affect physical change. The physical mechanisms through which witchcraft manifests beyond just willpower/intent/wishes/etc.

The history and subsequent influences of, and on, popular contemporary practices like Hermeticism, "Ceremonial Magick"/Golden Dawn, Wicca, and New Age/New Thought/LOA/Reiki.

How to approach and practice magic with critical thinking skills.

Influence of consumerism on contemporary practices.

Divination as systems: all methods of divination beyond tarot, their statistical applications, and their different methods of use.

The anthropology of medieval Arabia, Europe, Near East, and Asia relative to the magical or occult publications of the era. What is purely religious, parareligious, or syncretist and what does that mean for the interpretation of the text?

The genuine limits of our knowledge of the ancient world, what's possible for us to know and what can't we know?

Conversations with practitioners of closed or semi-closed practices and perspectives of POC when it comes to what the western world would label as "witchcraft".

The differences and similarities between superstition and the practice of witchcraft.

An understanding of the influence of colonialism on modern witchcraft and the language used to discuss magic.

Critical Race Theory (CRT), Queer Theory, and systems of oppression.

Botany and herbology: An understanding of the physical and medical properties of plants.

Building a personal lexicon for modern and/or colloquial terms used in and by the witchcraft community to describe and discuss practices.

Spell design: What makes a spell a spell? What is the smallest or slightest action that can be considered a spell and why? What are the most important and influential elements of the design and application of a spell?

Altars: Their use, design, and potential; whether or not an altar would benefit your practice or goals for practice.

A critical approach to spirit work and astral projection, being able to discern between personal narratives and probable experiences.

A safe and solid community to become a part of. One that does not allow the influence of personal narratives (Without addressing them as such), doesn't allow for the mixing of adults and minors, and with established and enforced logical and reasonable rules.

Collect and cross-reference correspondences from as many sources as possible, then start to create your own.

Try to find a STEM subject that interests you and study it through any non-dogmatic avenues available to you.

The items highlighted in blue are things I highly recommend!

Here is a list of things to avoid.

This is, of course, not an end-all-be-all list of possible responsible and healthy pursuits.

You can learn more about me, find my master-post, check out my Patreon, and suggest content here.

[atiny-desire]

God Of War

Pairing: God of war! Mingi x fem! Reader

Summary: You get lost in a snowy winter night. Your horse spooked, and now you're on your own to find your way back home. Instead of your home, you find an old temple belonging to the God of war, Mingi. From now on, this would be your home.

Word count: 3.2k

Disclaimer: I'm in no way condoning, justifying, encouraging nor promoting this kind of behavior. This is not supposed to represent Mingi in any way.

Warning: Dub-Consent (Only touching, no smut.)

◇◇◇

The moon above you was round and full, casting its silver light down on you and your surroundings every time it peeked through a gap between dark clouds. The trees from the forest you were stumbling through were bare. Their branches were decorated by a thick layer of snow instead of green leaves.

You wrapped your bare arms tight around your body, trying to save some warmth, but it did almost nothing. The clothes on your body were a poor excuse of clothing articles and doing nothing to help your body in preserving your body heat. This would be easier if you had a horse, but your horse was the reason why you were in this situation in the first place. It had suddenly spooked at something, completely catching you off guard and threw you off. You could only watch as it bolted away into the cold night

You left deep footprints in the thick snow as you dragged your weakened body forward. Soon, those footprints would be filled up by the fresh snow that was silently falling from the dark sky. You could barely feel your limbs, and your fingers didn't move how you wanted them to. As you stumbled through the forest you longed to be at home where you could curl up in front of a fireplace, fill your stomach with something warm to eat, and finally fall asleep in your comfortable bed. You concentrated on the small misty cloud that formed every time you breathed out. You tried anything to get your mind off of the harsh cold.

Your body was weak, and your eyes began to get a bit droopy when you saw something in the distance, finally something else than snow and trees. A flicker of hope bloomed in your chest when you spotted the outline of a building between the thick forest flora. You wanted to run toward it, but the exhausted state your body was in simply didn't allow it. Your eyes were trained on the grey bricks. The closer you came, the more the building revealed itself to you. At first, you had thought that it was just a small ruin or an abandoned house, something you hoped would give you shelter, but what you found was much bigger than what you had expected. What you found was some sort of temple. A thick layer of snow covered the roof, and naked ivy veins climbed up every inch of the structures walls. The building would have been completely hidden away by the lush green had it been spring or summer.

Stepping into the building, you had to quickly realize that you wouldn't find much protection of the cold here. Time had clearly eaten away at the temple. Lots of cracks and gaps in the walls allowed the wind to howl through the building. At especially large gaps, snow started to pile up, and the ivy that had already covered the outside also partially found its way inside. You walked further inside, even if you were still cold, at least you were protected from the snow. You noticed that the walls were covered in paintings. A lot of the paint had peeled off and chipped away, but some of the artworks were still partially visible. It was mostly art related to war. Armies of men fighting the enemy force and illustrations of losses and victories.

If you weren't on the brink of passing out, you would have gladly taken your time to look at the ancient paintings, but your main concern was staying alive. You walked past an old altar, the stony surface was stained in a dark color. Old blood. A lot of sacrifices must have been made here in order to stain the stone permanently. Behind the altar stood the podium for a statue, but the statue itself was gone. You retreated into the far corner of the temple, snow couldn't reach you there, and the wind wasn't as strong.

You curled up on the ground, your legs were pulled close to your chest and your arms wrapped around them. As mucbas you fought against it, your eyelids still felt heavy, threatening to fall closed at any given moment. You knew you couldn't fall asleep, not if you wanted to keep fighting, but your mind started to play tricks on you. Maybe if you just rested your eyes for a moment, just to get some energy back, you wouldn't fall asleep. As soon as you closed your eyes, you could feel the impending sleep gnaw at you, and your exhausted body was just too happy to give in and slip into unconscious. Your last sleep, you thought.

The next time you were conscious again, you felt warm. Warm? You were confused as to why you felt warm because the last thing you remembered was passing out in that old temple. You kept your eyes closed. You were too exhausted to worry about why you weren't freezing anymore. With a sigh, you pressed yourself closer to the source of heat.

It wasn't until you heard a chuckle from above you that your eyes snapped open in an instant. You tilted your head to look up and were promptly met with the chocolate brown eyes of a handsome man. At first, you only stared at him in awe before you fully came to your senses. You could feel his skin against yours along the length of your body. "There you are, darling. Though I might lose you." The man spoke and let his hand graze over your cheek. His touch was hot, almost burning your skin.

Considering your situation, you were somehow eerily calm. You slowly sat up and pushed his hand away. Till now, you haven't said a word, but one glance down your body was enough to make you gasp. Even if you had felt his skin against yours just a few moments ago, it only now registered in your head that you were naked. Your hand clutched th blanket, keeping it close to your chest to hide your body. Beside you, you could hear the man chuckle again. "Where am I? Why am I undressed?" You moved a little away from him so your bodies weren't in contact anymore.

He hummed and tilted his head as if he had to think about where you currently were. "My temple, darling. The temple of war. Although, mine is a lot more appealing than the one in the human world, isn't it?"

You took a look around you, the abandoned temple you remembered passing out in wasn't there anymore. Instead, you found yourself in a lavishly decorated bedroom. Pillars made of marble carried the unnecessarily high ceiling, golden ornaments were worked into almost everything, even the marbled floor. Two statues of the man beside you silently guarded the large arched double door of his bedroom, both of them almost managed to reach the ceiling. "I don't understand." You muttered when you looked back at him. Nothing he said made sense to you. How could this be the same temple you passed out in? And he still hadn't answered why you weren't wearing your clothes. "And my clothes, where are they?"

"What's there to not understand?" He sighed and shook his head. "My temple, you're in my temple." He repeated, this time a lot slower. He probably thought you were a little dense. "Your clothes? Well, I had to take them off. They were drenched. How could I possibly keep you warm with them on?"

You swallowed hard at the thought of a stranger undressing you. He saw you in your most vulnerablestate while you were passed out. The thought alone made you a little squirmish. "Please give them back, I have to go home."

But the man only shook his head again. "Oh no, you don't have to." He gently pushed you back down by your shoulder. The soft bed molded to your body, almost swallowing you up. This is what you imagined it would feel like if you slept on a cloud. "How about you rest first, hm? I imagine that last night must have taken quite the toll on your human body."

Without resistance, you let yourself be pushed down again. You were far too compliant for a woman who woke up in the bed of a naked stranger, but something about him was soothing. It's almost like a lullaby dragging you into the dreamland or a sirens song luring sailors into the depths of he oceans. "Why do you keep talking like that? Like you're not human."

"Because I'm not. I'm the God of war." His hand landed on your cheek again now that you were lying back down. His fingertips wandered over your cheek, slowly down to your neck and coming to a rest over your pulse point. "Darling, why do you seem so confused? Do you not believe in the Gods."

You were sure that this man was trying to mess with your head. Human realm, a temple that suddenly shined in its old glory, and now the talk about Gods? Most importantly, claiming to be a God himself. So either he was trying to fool you, or he was the one who wasn't right in the head. "It's a lot, isn't it?" The man beside you spoke up again. "I get it. You'll have to get used to it. It isn't every day you meet a God, huh?" Meanwhile, his hand on your neck started to get restless and slowly began to wander. His hand traced from the nape of your neck, slowly down your spine, and over the curve of your behind until his hand came to a halt on the back of your thigh. The entire time his hand wandered over your body, you held your breath. You didn't know this man, but strangely enough, his touch didn't feel unpleasant, quite the opposite, actually. His touch left a warm prickly trail on your skin, his touch just as comforting as resting under the warm sun.

"Breath, darling." His voice lowered into a throaty purr which let his chest vibrate.

His words snapped you out of your trance, and you finally let air fill your lungs again. "Who are you really?" You asked him warily. In your mind, you were thinking about moving away from him to create some distance between the stranger and you. However, your body seemed to have other plans than your mind and stayed glued to your spot on the soft bed with silk blankets covering most parts of your body.

His hand softly squeezed the soft flesh of your thigh, a satisfied hum rumbled in his throat as his fingers dug into your skin. For a moment, he looked a little lost, his mind seemingly elsewhere and his eyes staring off into the distance right through you. Just when you were about to ask again, he answered you. "Well, name is Mingi, if that's what youre asking for." That's all he said. He gave you no explanation as to why you were with him. It was clear that he was too distracted. His fingers twitched to explore more of your body and let them roam freely all over you, but for now, he decided to behave himself a little and keep his hand on the back of your thigh.

You sighed when he really didn't reveal more about your current situation. It looked like you would have to pull the answers out of him. "Why am I here?"

Mingi had previously let his eyes wander over you, watching your form, which was hidden under the blankets. His eyes glued to your chest in particular. His gaze was narrowed at the blanket, which was pulled up just enough to protect your modesty, like it was the bane of his existence. But now his brown eyes met yours, at first glance they were kind and gentle, but with further inspection you could see that there was a storm right beneath the surface and ready to cause destruction, given the first opportunity. "How often do I have to repeat myself, darling? You know where you are, whether you believe it or not, you know it." His answer was less than satisfying. Your face pulled into a frown.

His hand let go of your thigh to reach for your face, his thumb stroked over your forehead, smoothing out the wrinkles that formed there. "Don't frown. I'll give you the answers you want, but it's not my fault if you dont believe them." Mingi sat up and stretched his arms over his head. The blanket had fallen off of his torso, now pooling around his hips and just barely covering his full glory from you. The muscles under his skin rippled with every movement. His body looked like he was sculptured by Pheidias himself.

You didn't mean to stare, but it was hard not to look when you could see how his biceps bulged, as well as the veins prominently running along his arms, and the muscles of his stomach flexing as he stretched his body. You swallowed hard at the thought of what would happen if the blanket slipped just a little lower. Mingi noticed you staring in his peripheral vision, but he chose not to say anything. "As I said many times before, you're in my temple, but you should know that, shouldn't you? After all, you're the one who wandered in here."

Suddenly, he stood up from the bed, a smirk tugged at his lips when he heard a small gasp coming from you. He had his back facing you, but you still quickly averted your eyes elsewhere. "You may think I was the one tugging you into my bed, but it was you who crawled in, really. Curling up against me like a stray kitten almost frozen to death." He spoke. You had no recollection of this. Then he shrugged his shoulders and corrected himself. "I might have guided you a little, but you're the one who came to me first."

While he was talking, he started to get dressed, and you watched. Well, at least he partially got dressed because his torso stayed mostly bare, only covered by a pelt sling with a one-sided shoulder pad. "It's been a long time since someone visited my temple." He mumbled, you swore you could hear some bitterness in his voice. Mingi turned back around to face you again. "But I guess the wait was worth it?"

"But that doesn't answer your question, right?" He chuckled as he began to roam around the lavish bedroom again, searching for something until he found and pulled out a pot with red paint in it. "I'm a God, darling. The god of war mainly, but also a symbol for bravery, virility, and victory." Meanwhile, he began to apply the paint to his body in a neat thick stripe on the side of his torso and over one side of his face. "Stumbled right into the lion's den." He muttered under his breath.

"Do you really think I believe that?" You asked. You couldn't help but scoff at what he had said. "Anyone can say that they're a god! Please just tell me where I am, I am serious, and I want to go home soon."

Mingi sighed and shook his head. "Why do humans always have to be so stubborn?" He muttered quietly. His movements stopped, and his head turned to look at you. "I'm afraid that's not possible. Of course, you didn't know better, but once you enter the realm of the gods, there's no turning back. At least for mortals like you, there isn't." His body followed his head, now facing you completely. "You're in the temple of the God of War. Sacrifices made to me are usually dead or on the brink of it, and guess what you were when you stumbled in here."

He sighed again and walked over to the bed, which was still occupied by your naked form hidden by the blankets. "Hate to break it to you, darling, but you're mine now." His hand reached out to caress your cheek. What he said was nothing but a lie. He didn't feel any remorse about this situation whatsoever. In fact, he relished in it. Finally, he has a pretty thing by his side, keeping his bed warm while he is out and about.

"But my home... I have to get home!" You protested.

"Why?" His head tilted while his hand roamed down to your neck. It was like his hand had a mind on its own because he couldn't keep his hands to himself. "What's there for you? No man, no family, no friends. Why are you so set on going back?"

You were a bit taken aback about his sudden assumptions about you. He wasn't wrong, but it was still surprising how accurate he was. Was it written on your face that you were a loner? It seemed that your surprise was written on your face because a low laugh emitted from deep within Mingi's chest. "I'm a God, darling. Of course I know. I know about everything that happens in my territory, and your little town you call your home just so happens to be part of it." He mused. His eyes were on his hand while he gently caressed your skin. "My time of glory and worship might have been a long time ago, but that doesn't mean that I disappeared. This land is still mine. I'm the one who has fought for this land centuries ago, and I'm the one who still protects it to this day."

Suddenly, his eyes sparkled with mischievous while he looked at you. "It's a shame you couldn't see the glory of the old days. You would've made a pretty war trophy."

Even if you wanted to move, you couldn't. His touch was stronger than the most potent narcotics, easily keeping you in place with feather like brushes of his fingertips. His words made you think, and you had to come to the conclusion that he was right. There was nothing waiting for you, at least nothing worth noting. But it couldn't be this easy, right? You couldn't just stay with a man whose touch was so incredibly tantalizing that you doubted your own sanity, a man who you just met, and a man who claimed to be a God. "Prove it to me. Prove that you're a God."

"Oh, I will, in time." He replied and straightened himself up. His touch left your cheek, and it took everything within you not to follow his hand like a cat begging for pats. "But not now. There's something I have to take care of before the other gods start to bother me about the fact that I'm keeping a human in our realm." He sighed and rolled his eyes. He would much rather spend time with his new pet, but he would have to tell Hongjoong, the father of the gods, about you if he didn't want to be cast out from the ranks of Gods and Goddesses.

He turned to leave, but he was stopped by you just before he could. "Wait! At least give me my clothes back."

He hummed, pretending to think about it before he shot you down with a flat, "No." A small grin spread on his lips when he continued, "I think I'm going to keep you like this, so I know you won't wander around and cause any havoc while I'm not here."

You huffed and glared at him. Your hand, which was holding the blanket protectively to your chest, tightened in the fabric. "You-!" He didn't even wait to listen to what you had to say. With large steps, he walked out of the room. The door shut closed behind him, and you were left alone, sitting on his bed with just your thoughts. This situation was absurd. You should be freaking out, screaming, and kicking, but you were calm. It didn't seem like he had the intention to hurt you. You were safe. Maybe you should listen to him. Maybe you should stay.

It's not like you ever had a choice in the in the first place.

[therealcocoshady]

POV : You’re Marshall Mathers’s girlfriend and he worships you

Author’s Note : Hi guys ✨. I feel like it’s been a while since I last published something on here. Enjoy this little blurb I wrote. It’s kind of random but I think it’s kind of cute still 💕.

Marshall Mathers doesn’t really enjoy being treated like a king wherever he goes. He knows people give him special treatment out of respect, because he is a huge fucking superstar, but he doesn’t really care for it. He’s just a normal dude at heart, you know ? He likes it when things are kept simple. He’s not a huge fan of the deference, of people practically bowing and curtsying to him because he is Eminem. It’s weird.

But when it comes to you ? People better treat you like the absolute monarch that you are. This man will not accept anything less for the woman he loves. You are his sun. His days start and end with you. You are a deity he worships day and night and people better put some respect on his lady’s name.

He is not giving you the princess treatment. No. This would be good enough for any peasant. If he could, this man would build altars and monuments for you. You are his religion. Your birthday and the anniversary of your first date are holidays he refuse to work on. Doesn’t matter if he’s offered hundreds of thousands of dollars for a ten minutes performance, he simply refuses to be away from you on those days. And if you so much as utter an « I need you », this man will drop absolutely everything. He’s done it in the past and he absolutely has no regrets about flying for five hours on a day off from tour to be able to surprise you at work after you mentioned it was « so hard being away » from him. He is usually mindful about climate change but for you, this man will turn into Taylor « taking my jet for a ten minutes flight » Swift. He literally doesn’t care about the world burning as long as there is a smile on your face. Marshall is not a big spender but for you, he doesn’t care about numbers. His goddess deserves the very best and, thank God for that merch money, he is able to give it to you. He’s not a diva but he demands the very best for you. He couldn’t care less about the water brought to him in his dressing room before a performance. But he makes sure it’s your favorite brand. Same for snacks. If he has to fly someone to another country to get something for you, he absolutely will. In his mind, it’s the least he can do for the woman who blesses him with her presence. He is almost offended when someone fails to greet you properly and he absolutely is when someone straight up disrespects you. If he could, he would fight duels in your honor. Somehow, you managed to turn this stoic individual in the utmost gentleman. When he’s by your side, you will never be caught walking on the wrong side of the pavement, having to hold your own bags. He’d rather die than have that. But you’ll never be caught. Because he protects you like you’re the most precious treasure there is. He’s never caught in your presence, because he doesn’t want to have you plagued by the media and harassed by fans and, yet, he manages to show you off. In private, he doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s head over heels with you. Your name is on his lips constantly, and the way he talks about you shows just how devoted he is. At first, people close to him got a little worried. Who were you ? What were your intentions ? It seemed like you were out of nowhere. Walked into Marshall’s life one day and, from then on, he was addicted. They had every reason to be suspicious. And then, they met you. And they understood. They got to witness the genuineness of your interactions, how your eyes mirrored Marshall’s devotion, the way he leaned into your touch so naturally and just how you seemed to heal the parts of him that had been left raw. For the first time in forever, they saw him at peace. Not merely content. Happy. They expected to hate you, because what kind of high maintenance brat has the most stoic man they ever knew act like a puppy ? Only, they couldn’t. It wasn’t quite clear how things worked out between you and Marshall and, in hindsight, it was none of their business. But they couldn’t hate you when it was clear as day that « Em » as most call him, had finally found a safe space. So you won them over as well, and they gave you the princess treatment.

[anonymityisfunwriter]

too sweet

pairing: bucky barnes x reader summary: he knows you're too sweet, but it won't stop him from trying to enter heaven's gate.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist | AnonymityisFun’s SongFics Anon's Birthday Celebration

not to be annoying about this, but i am convinced people are not hearing this song. convinced.

like the wedding bells as he rejects you?

he’s literally hearing wedding bells as he says you’re too sweet for him, as he tries to hold you at arms' length.

you’re sweet as a grape, soft as a vine?? if you could sit in a barrel he’ll wait???

he'll wait. he'll wait until he can have you all to himself. because really, at the root of the song... is gluttony.

wanting someone that you know is too sweet for you. wanting them anyway. wanting far more than just your fill. wanting everything and more. the taste of you will never be enough.

pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, sloth.

the seven deadly sins.

and gluttony was always bucky's poison.

down to his core, he was a glutton. a glutton for punishment. a glutton for love. a glutton for you.

he knew it from the moment his eyes feasted upon you, taking you in as the newly minted SHIELD agent. his own personal circle of hell.

he's starving, desperate to put his lips to something. he just knows there would be something so especially gluttonous about wrapping his teeth around you.

he's not sure how long he can wait, but he knows he has no choice but to wait.

his teeth would rot if he allowed himself a taste.

he'd miss the feeling of bitter whiskey sliding down this throat if he allowed himself a taste.

you're simply too sweet. but he's nothing if not a patient man. he'll build the barrel for you to sit in, if you'd like.

after all, even the sweetest grapes eventually turn into wine.

you're so blissfully unaware of it, of his scheming, his puppeteering, pulling your strings from the moment he'd set his sights on you.

that very first night, he invites you - and other agents to avoid suspicion - to drink with him.

you're all so eager for the team's approval. clamoring for a taste of their approval.

and yet, you're the only one brave enough to look him in the eye.

he has to admire your nerve as you, without invitation, slide into the barstool from beside him. "thank you for inviting us. i'm sure you had better things to do than be here with new recruits."

he shifts in his barstool, his eyes gleaming with amusement, "what makes you so sure about that?"

"oh, i just - i guess i just assumed."

he really likes the faint blush of your cheeks in the dim bar light. he's sure in that moment. sure that you're far too good. far too sweet.

and more sure than ever that he'll wait however long it'll take if he can keep you.

"i'll take a whiskey. neat." he juts his chin at you. "you?"

you shake your head, offering a twitch of a smile. "oh, just a water. thanks."

"not much of a drinker?"

"no, not really."

too sweet.

too sweet.

too sweet.

he knows that. he knows he's inhaled too much smoke in his life. even considering dragging you down to the pits of his hell has to be blasphemy. he knows it all.

and yet, he can see it.

he can see you waking by his side, dark as a lake.

he can hear it, the wedding bells clanging through his bones like a death knell.

he can taste your lips, sweet as ambrosia.

he may not be a virtuous man, but patience he would have. for you. he'll kneel and worship at your altar for the rest of his life if you'll let him enter heaven's gate.

and like any good man, he bides his time. sitting and waiting. you're an early riser. you're up before he's even hit his bed for the night.

the smell of a dark roast wafts through the air of the compound kitchen when he pads through on his way to bed.

he sees you standing at island, offering a gentle wave of your fingers, "hey, sarge. i didn't take you for an early bird."

he grunts, the corner of his mouth twitching up, "'m not. still haven't gone to bed."

"you haven't gone to bed," your eyes widen slightly like you can't believe it. "it's five in the morning."

he cocks an eyebrow at you, "then what are you doin' up?"

the smile that forms on your face is far too bright for him this early in the morning. "i like to watch the sunrise."

bucky snorts. "of course you do."

he wants to tell you, to show you. you can watch the sunrise with him. you keep him company in the noon of night and sleep just as the sun hits the horizon.

he wants to show you the other side of life. don't you know that the moon shines just as bright as the sun? no. you have no idea, but you'll get there eventually.

he just has to wait...

a few months later...

"bucky! bucky!" you crouch down before him, looking panicked. he's not the only injured, not even the most severely injured in your field of view. and yet, here you are, on your knees, lavishing him with your attention. "are you okay?"

he waves you off, doing his best to play the part of the noble, self sacrificing hero, all while he relishes in your attention. "i'm fine."

"you could've been killed."

was it true? sure. was it likely? no.

he looks up at you. he knows his face is littered with bruises and scrapes of all shapes and sizes. "at least the job got done."

"you have to be more careful, bucky. you're not expendable."

this time, his smile is genuine. he doesn't think he's ever head you call him that. bucky. he likes how it falls from your lips.

his eyes flash over to you, his ocean blue eyes swimming with mischief, "well, who wants to live forever, doll?"

you suck in a shaky breath. there's a part of you that he knows wants to bridge the gap between the two of you.

he can see it. your edges fraying. he swears he can see you stepping out of the barrel of your own making. he can smell your liquor soaked bones.

there's a part of you, that wants to join bucky in his gluttony. but not quite yet. not while you're still bright as the morning, soft as the rain. just a little longer. he could practically hear the gates creaking open for him.

it doesn't take much. not with the temptation bucky so dutifully lays before you. he's not sure what it was. the constant torment of unending missions. the fact that he could see your willpower slipping every time he got too close.

it was almost like a switch flipped.

no, you were no longer as bright as the morning sky, but shimmering like the night sky.

and beautiful just the same.

he watches as you stare at the counter of the bar from that very first night. it's like you know he's near. your eyes lift, finding his.

you look at him, then at the bartender.

without ever breaking eye contact, you mutter a drink to the bartender. "i'll take a whiskey. neat."

a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, he nods at the bartender, then turns to you. "i'll have the same."

Bucky Barnes Masterlist AnonymityisFun’s SongFics

Taglist: @marianita195 @meli18gonzalez @ludicbouquetfromearth @matchat3a @famousbreadcherryblossomsstuff @valoraxx @blue786sworld @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @geminigengar @ansaturn @ecolle @lexhalstead3 @ybflkmj @mediocre-daydreams@shanye1112 @thegirlnextdoorssister @toomanyfanficsbruh @moonlightreader649 @breathtaking-cynthia @mirikusashes @beans-and-toast @niyahcoca @katiechikin @elxvrr @antiheroxsblog @infamouslyclumsy @krissydclayton93 @buckysbarne @deadheadwbedhead @qualitygiantshoepsychic @whitexwolfxx310 @getosprettyboy @matchat3a @weallhaveadestiny @mostlymarvelgirl @honeydew3064 @michealharrypotter @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @withyoutilltheendoftheline @the-photo-hoe @rae-nna @sarachabeans1@double-shot-of-tequila @spookyparadisesheep @lunaalovesyouu @daisy-loves-bucky@roseproseposts @theoraekenslover@king814318 @maybesomedaytho @carlie-babes99 @sunshinechikin @as-white-as-snow-love @melala1030 @badasswlthafatass @armystay89 @multiversefanfics @cherrysscinema @breathlesspieceofdeath @ravenn-darkholme @bxckybxrnes24 @guiltyasreid @bellabarnes1378 @blithecapricorn @mrsnikstan

[infernalwitxhcraft]

All About: House Spirits

Well, it's about time I brought them up once again, in their own post. This guide may be on the lengthy side, but it's here to explain what they are and how to begin working with them.

What the hell is a house spirit?

House spirits come from all different cultures and folklore. Known as, you guessed it, guardians of the home. They protect the house itself, the land around it (they get along with the land spirit(s) most of the time), and they also protect the family if treated right. A home certainly doesn't feel like one without these presiding spirits helping. In fact it gives the home a life of it's own.

What do they look like? Are there types?

Across many cultures, there are these spirits and the folklore varies for each. In my tribe, we consider them to usually be little dwarves or goblins that must be appeased, otherwise they will cause bad luck or even resort to curses. Regular offerings are required. Then there are the land spirits, which is a whole other topic. If given regular offerings and respect, we believe that they will not only generate good luck and events for us, but protect us and help with our daily lives. For the witches of the tribe, they will often assist in rituals and spells. That all being said, this has carried over into my personal beliefs. Many cultures describe house spirits assisting with the same things and if they are displeased, bad occurrences following. As far as looks go, it depends on the folklore surrounding your area and your cultural background(s). You may believe in one or two types or an entire spectrum of house spirits from the realm of the fair folk. You could have one house spirit or twelve. It's entirely up to your home. In some cultures, there are door spirits (yes, that guard the doors) and ones that work in the kitchen, among others for different functions of the home.

Okay so, I live in an apartment building. Can I still work with them?

Yes. When I used to live in apartments, I found it was an either/or situation regarding how many were there. Some buildings have only a few that roam around, sometimes only one that protects the entire building, or there may be multiple hanging out in one apartment. Most complexes have multiple however. And then for the lucky buildings that have one for each apartment...those are nice. I've included a short offering ritual at the end of this post, which you can use to ask questions about whatever you wish to know, including how many there are in the building.

What kind of offerings do they like?

Milk, honey, bread, and herbs are a safe bet. They especially like bread baked by you, as they see it as a labor of love and that your energy is in there. Taking time to tend to the garden and taking care of your property & home in general are things they like to see. Don't leave the house a huge mess, as many prefer a tidy atmosphere. Not an offering per say, but important to mention nonetheless.

What should I put on their altar?

I keep my altar for them in the kitchen, as it is in a place that is undisturbed and can't be torn up by my land shark (aka, my dog). I also feel that most of the house spirits I have worked with in my life enjoy hanging out in this area of the home. They seem to like assisting in kitchen magic and cooking in general and the warmth of the stove. You may also want to include a small area near the front door if you believe that there are separate spirits for there. I'd recommend a shelf, as it won't take up as much space in the entryway.

Okay, back on track. Plants (if the space gets enough light), a cauldron, candles, offering bowls, a chalice, glass, or mug of some sort. A special spoon to stir the drinks or potions with. Decorative pieces from nature. Things you craft by hand.

How can I begin working with them?

Anytime, in reality. However, you do have to develop an actual relationship with them. This can take time and the more you speak to them, give offerings, and invite them in as you cook or clean, the more they will be willing to help with your spellwork, wards, and healing. Try the introduction ritual I've included. See what happens. Document it. Try again another time the following week. And just...keep going. Make sure that they know you haven't forgotten about them by leaving a small nightly glass of milk out before you head to bed. It doesn't have to be filled to the rim (hey, cost of living is ridiculous right now). It can be a splash with a squirt of honey added. Or a sprinkle of herbs on their bowl. Or maybe a small helping of what you whipped up for dinner. Point is to show them that you acknowledge and respect their presence. That will be the biggest component. Do the ritual once a week until you start seeing signs of contact. Once you do, make your own ritual with them. Incorporate them into your daily life. Ask them to help with blessing your cooking. Ask them to make sure your wards are in tact. Ask the door spirit to purify the energy of anyone that walks in & make bad people resist coming by. Start seeing if they'd like to sit in on a ritual, if you feel comfortable with that idea. Ask for a blessing when you clean the house & to assist you in removing all the bad energy.

Brief introductory ritual

To introduce yourself to your house spirits, I recommend sitting in your kitchen. If you consider your hearth to be the living room, you can choose to do it there. Make sure to bring offerings with that you feel will be applicable. Freshly baked bread (from your own hands) and some milk with honey stirred in would make a wonderful first treat. I usually introduce myself in a new home by bringing these treats to the location of choice, and start by speaking my intention aloud which goes something like:

"Spirits of the home,

Guardians and Protectors of this dwelling,

Please come sit with me and enjoy these offerings.

I wish to have a working relationship where we can honor, respect, and help each other."

I usually spend about ten-twenty minutes meditating after this is spoken aloud. Sometimes you will feel a strong presence. This is the time I take to set up my kitchen altar as well. If there is a place that I am able to create a mini-altar by the front door, I do so there for the door spirits. The land spirits get their own little thing out in the backyard. I've found in the many places I've lived, they almost always work together and some house spirits spend quite some time out there too!

From here on out, you'll develop your relationship with regular offerings and take it from there!

[randombush3]

take me home

alexia putellas x reader

notes: idek i was just bored. i don’t even like this 😬

words: 2247

summary: it’s late, but you have a visitor you can’t turn away. (think ‘style’ by taylor swift)

warnings: (repurposed) smut. i don’t wanna talk abt that shocking portion of the fic tho so shh

The nights are lonelier than you had expected them to be when you moved here. Barcelona to London was a big change – a scary one, though it is difficult for your pride to let you admit that.

You, with your ambition, lost sight of what was supposedly tying you down, paying it as much attention as the other person in the relationship was. When you left, nothing really changed. You haven’t heard from her since.

So, as you sit in front of your TV, the bright colours of Sex Education illuminating the white walls of your otherwise dark apartment, you ask yourself once more why you are surprised. Why, every time you spend an evening alone, attempting to master the English language, your heart can’t help but crack a little bit more.

Eyes growing wearier by the minute, you cheat your immersion by texting a friend: no one particularly interesting. She is telling you about her vision for a song. A pianist she heard the other day has inspired her, and she wants your help. You often lend an experienced hand to the ones who need guidance when it comes to producing, but it’s midnight and you can’t be bothered at all. You realise that, in Spain, she must be out in the warmth of the city’s night, sitting on someone or other’s balcony, smoking a cigarette. A quick once-over of your own situation prods at a regret you have decided to ignore.

You’re in London for a reason.

The grating chirp of your buzzer causes your phone to be flung from your grip, landing on the rug beneath your bare feet with a soft, muted thud. Another ring of the buzzer has you groggily heading towards the intercom to the left of your door (painted red since yesterday, as urged by your mother who is all for personalising and making a place feel like home).

“Hello?” you question, too lazy to consider the shockingly short list of potential visitors.

The voice that replies wakes you up, practically setting your body aflame, syllables washing over you as though they come from the font at the altar. Holy. Well, you decide that they are equals.

And, oddly enough, despite moving to another country – despite leaving without saying goodbye, tears in your eyes only cried once your backs had been turned against each other, hands on either side of a door that wasn’t going to open again – you obey her command, slipping on your shoes without hesitation. You step into the lift, examining your tired reflection in the smudged mirror, wondering whether licking your thumb and smoothing out your eyebrows is really going to fix the dark eyebags that act like reverse eyeshadow on your face.

The car that waits outside your building, shadily parked by the pavement across the road, honks once, headlights off. You sigh, accepting your fate, and cross, pulling at the handle of the passenger side, opening the door onto a potentially disastrous night.

“Hola,” says Alexia. Her hair is loose, falling around her shoulders in professional curls. She is in London for a reason, too. From her white shirt and silk trousers, you deduce the kind of reason.

The air is tense, thick with unsaid words and the knowledge of what happened when you last spoke, but you slide onto the leather seat of the rented Audi anyway. “Hola,” you say back. She drives.

There are many questions you’d like to ask her, the first being how she found your address. They sit on your tongue; hopeful, waiting to be said. You swallow and succumb to the heavy silence, listening to the whir of the engine and roll of the tires on the wet tarmac of the roads she drives you down.

She has no map. She knows not where she is taking you, nor why she came in the first place. (The latter is a lie. She misses you. She tells herself she doesn’t.) In truth, she is surprised you don’t notice how she is going round in circles. Maybe you don’t get out much. Maybe you are just as miserable as she has been.

You moved away eight months ago. She has craved your presence for nine. No, ten. Maybe even for a lifetime.

Maybe you feel the same, though she wouldn’t know.

Maybe you want to come home.

Maybe leaving her has only shown you what was always there. What is no longer waiting for you in your apartment after late-night studio sessions or long, draining meetings. What is not a set weekend plan anymore: football matches; dinners with her team; nights at clubs together, dancefloor commandeered and dominated, dingy bathroom not long after. Then, Alexia realises that she has gambled, and that bets can be lost.

Though, if you had found someone else to dance with – to love, really – you’d probably be with them right now.

She wants to say something. Apologise, perhaps. Or ask how you are, solely to discover your current relationship status.

You get there first.

“It’s been a while since I have heard from you.”

She glances across the dashboard, turning right onto a long, tree-lined drive, not caring whether this may be trespassing. It’s hard to look at the road when she could be looking at you instead.

“I have been busy,” she offers.

“I see.”

She bites her tongue, eyes squinting in frustration with herself. Her grip on the steering wheel tightens, though you hardly notice, too occupied with searching for your self-control. You’ve never been blessed with much of it, but it exists within you to a certain extent. Surely.

You know you are wrong when she parks once more outside of your building, this time getting out. You follow suit, taking her hand wordlessly, leading her inside.

Instead of looking into the mirror, she presses you up against it, hands on your hips as you nod, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. Her eyes are wild, and you’d think she were drunk if she hadn’t been driving you around for the past twenty minutes. You don’t have to tell her to kiss you. She already knows what to do.

The lift doors open on your floor. You tug her out, taking her home. To your home – a word no longer shared between the two of you.

Your apartment is as dark as you left it, Netflix asking if you are still there as it interrupts Sex Education. You are now accidentally on the next episode.

She laughs quietly when she sees the TV, mouth opening against yours, sound in your mouth as you work to be consumed by her. You’ll probably regret this tomorrow morning.

Alexia takes off her coat, draping it over the back of the sofa. You smile to yourself, choosing to not be conflicted by how comfortable she is here. She knows you well. You like to tidy on your own, and you will set aside her coat somewhere else later. She gives you the freedom – the break in your kiss – to tell her to redress. To get out.

She waits a second more when it does not come.

You undo the top button of her shirt while she stands, paused in your new apartment, breathing in the lingering smell of fresh paint. There are scuff marks on the skirting boards, and she is reminded that it has been eight months. That you have had time to create another life here. It seems as though you, now onto the second button, still manage to mould yourself around her, however.

“Ale,” you murmur, tracing your pinkie finger across the exposed skin of her chest. “It’s okay. I…”

And she heavily relates to your failure to get the words out.

Instead of bearing the silence that should follow, she ignores the alarm bell in her head that warns her not to break her heart all over again, and leans in to kiss you once more, lips soft and familiar and addictive.

Your body feels electric against hers as she kisses you harder and harder. Your mind, for once, is at peace. The first time it has been since you moved here.

You take her to your bedroom, kissing your way down her neck as she lifts your hoodie over your head, muscular arms well-versed in this action. There have been others, you’ve heard.

Topless, you sit on your bed, crumpling the fresh sheets. “I heard that you’ve been out and about with some other girl,” you say, catching your breath. She stands in front of you, looking down, eyes fixed on yours despite the cleavage on display being such a tempting exhibit.

There is guilt here with the two of you, now. She wants to make you feel like you are the only person in the world, but she knows you won’t believe her.

“What you heard is true,” she replies, reluctant to admit it. “But I… I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You scoff, lying back anyway. She kneels over you, a leg either side of your waist. “I’ve been there too. A few times.” The pang of jealousy that strikes her low in her stomach spurs her on as she reconnects her lips with yours.

You watch as concentration takes over her, letting her touch you, kiss you, caress you. You haven’t even told her to slow down. If anything, you wish she’d speed up and just get to it already, remembering just how good she makes you feel.

She explores your body like she knows it but wants to learn it all over again, kissing the scars and the freckles and the tattoos that litter your body, all equally important features of the woman that sends her soaring above the clouds. You keen under her touch, whining as your patience depletes.

“Please,” you breathe. Alexia slides down your body, her lips skimming the hollow of your throat. You gasp as she kisses the valley between your breasts, the slight tickle of her hands ghosting your ribs making you feel a thousand things at once.

It all crashes into one as she kisses you over your underwear. Your hand laces through her hair, tousling it. You prefer that over how her stylist does it, anyway.

Her lips brush the waistband of the black fabric, hooking her fingers underneath the elastic, giggling at the way you raise your hips in anticipation. Instead, she chooses to swipe through your folds, circling your clit as you protest half-heartedly. You grip the bedsheets as her fingers dip inside of you, tucking and curling. “Good?” Your back arches as at the welcome invasion. You silently beg for her to leave you more breathless than you already are. She somehow hears your thoughts and inches your underwear down, slotting herself between your thighs, lying on her stomach.

Warm lips caress your inner thigh, teasingly making you ask her for more through your involuntary moans. Alexia’s hot breath ghosts over your clit. “Joder,” you swear. You crane your head up to watch at the first bold swipe of Alexia’s tongue against you. Her lips are hotter than her breath as she kisses you, open-mouthed and needily. Her tongue glides through your wetness, stopping at your entrance. Another urgent moan spills from your lips as her tongue slips inside of you, her hands cupping your bum, bringing you closer to her.

You squeeze your eyes shut, death-gripping whatever you can hold onto, as her tongue makes its way up to your clit. The disappointing emptiness is not felt for long; tongue quickly replaced by two skilled fingers. You groan as she curls inside of you.

Your orgasm builds, months overdue. You grind into her.

She pulls away.

Your eyes flicker open at the loss of contact. “What?” you pant.

She kneels up and brings her hand to her mouth, her soft lips enveloping her glistening fingers. Her eyes stare up at yours, intense and lustful, her lips turning upwards in a devilish smile. It is the sexiest thing you have ever seen.

Her hair hangs down as she leans over you, shirt still just as done-up as it was when you had last been focused on things other than how good it feels to have Alexia between your legs. The pause, hot and breathy, enables her to pull the white material off, lacy bralette barely covering anything.

You undo the clasp at the back expertly, throwing the bralette somewhere that will prolong her nakedness in your bed. You groan, a common sound now, at the sight of her, hands cupping her breasts as she grows bashful.

When her thigh connects with your centre, she loses her shyness. She can feel how wet you are, and, really, she feels sorry for you.

Once more, she slips her fingers inside you, adding another this time. Your back curves upwards, your muscles trembling. Alexia’s free hand rests on your navel, holding you down as her tongue swirls around your clit.

She sends you reeling; catapulting you head-first into a land of bliss.

When you have both showered — much, much later — you let her distance herself from you in your bed. She’s a stranger now, you tell yourself.

Alexia leaves London the next day, with no plea to take you home with her.

You spend another evening in front of the TV, deciding that yesterday was only a blip in your routine. But, you know, deep down, that she will be back. Or vice versa. You’ll never go out of style.